DRR New Orleans
by Mariel3
Summary: Darkness lies in unexpected places. DRR.
1. Default Chapter

New Orleans

Chapter 1

I wonder how long it's been since anyone besides the killer and his victim and Reyes and me has been here. Except for the body lying on the floor, the room we stand in looks and feels as though little has disturbed it for years.

_Turn on the light, Daddy, it's dark!_

Stifling an impulse to look back at Monica, I trail the beam of my flashlight along the cement block walls of the basement. It's a depressing, dark space with no windows and a painted cement floor. The door to the main part of the basement stands ajar, its door jamb splintered from the force I used to break it open. On the wall opposite, there are some yellowed newspaper articles and a few curling photographs pinned to a corkboard. Below it, an open Bible lies on a dusty table beside several partially burned candles and an open box of matches.

When I direct the flashlight onto the floor, its beam finds the body easily. The dead woman lies on her stomach, eyes open, head turned to one side. Her mouth is slightly open as though death caught her about to speak. One bloodied hand stretches outward in supplication to a God I know stopped listening a long, long time ago.

My guess is the body's been here only a short time. Still, it'll take days of forensics and crime scene investigation to gather enough information to give us concrete facts. I've already formed my own opinion, though. Monica was right: add this murder to a similar one here only two weeks ago - and to two others in New York a little more than a month ago - and what you've got is a serial killer. A serial killer who's confident, experienced, and enjoys what he does. Glancing at the book lying open on the small table, I note that he reads the Bible, too - or at least likes to have it lying around open while he goes about his business.

"You see anything?"

My voice sounds muted in the stale basement air.

Monica turns, her yellow halo of light moving with her. Shining her flashlight onto the open book, she observes, "The Bible's open to a different page this time."

Silently cursing the fact that no one ever seems to leave a body where the electricity works, I carefully step towards her in the darkness. Shining my flashlight directly onto the pages, I note the book and chapter. "You're right."

Monica just gives me the eye. Of course she's right - why else would she have said anything?

She looks around, her dark eyes taking everything in. After hesitating a second to choose her words, she offers, "Perhaps what he's reading is related to what he's doing. And this," she says, indicating the murder scene with a wave of her flashlight, "is his version of throwing down the gauntlet. This is a declaration of some sort - to Satan or God, I don't know yet, but it's definitely a declaration."

I've got no idea where she gets these ideas, but I hang on for the ride. "God or Satan? That's quite a range in possibilities, isn't it?"

"Not as wide as most people think," is all the answer I get. She turns away to shine her flashlight along the floor again.

Only half listening as she begins making more observations, I wonder which side the killer thinks we're on. With a suddenness that takes my breath away, I'm struck by the image of a shadowed figure huddled over a book in flickering candlelight. His eyes half closed and one long finger following the words, the man's lips move as he reads. I can almost hear the low murmur of his voice. There's another presence in the room, too: frightened, helpless, its life force slowly ebbing. I feel something akin to an electrical current in the air. It swirls around me, growing in strength. Dread making the hair stand up on the back of my neck, I turn to-

"John?"

Abruptly, I'm pulled back to the here and now and the vision or whatever it was disappears. Monica is looking at me, a frown creasing her brow. The still, musty darkness of the room feels suddenly malevolent and I suppress an urge to head for the door. Shivering slightly, I push aside my overactive imagination and move my flashlight along the walls, purposefully turning away from her. It's easier to pretend nothing's happened if I don't look her in the eye. Even with my back turned, though, I can feel her gaze.

She knows.

I'm beginning to think she always knows. I'll be damned if I'm gonna admit it, though. "Go on, I'm listening," I say, making a show of examining the bare walls and refusing to answer her unasked question about what just happened.

"He's setting a scene," she says slowly, allowing me my act, sidestepping the questions that hang in the air between us. "He knows exactly how he wants us to find everything."

Still aware of her watchful gaze, I continue my pretence of nonchalance and trail my flashlight over to the still figure lying on the floor. I say the first thing that comes to mind: "But this isn't how the other bodies were positioned."

The yellow halo from Monica's flashlight joins with mine in unholy union over the body. "I don't think he had time to lay her out the way he wanted to, so had to improvise. Perhaps the neighbour who reported her missing was walking around the house or something. He isn't someone who likes disruptions, but I believe he left pleased with the overall effect." She pauses, looks about, then says, "He may be worried that we aren't getting whatever message it is that he wants us to get."

That last I recognise as another one of her damned 'leaps'. Monica has a talent for taking what she sees and making an extrapolation that has nothing concrete to it but which usually works out to be right. She says she senses things. I think it's a load of crap, and maybe a little creepy. I look around and again feel an urgent need to leave and go outside to breathe fresh air, see starlight. I look at the body. Whoever did this isn't sending any message other than he's crazy and likes to kill.

I decide I don't like it here and that it's time to leave.

_I want to go now, Daddy!_

"The police will be here shortly, and they'll have portable lighting. Why don't we go outside to wait? We've seen all we can for the moment."

That's Monica, reading my thoughts again. Usually I hate it when she seems to do that, but this time I don't care what gave me away. I nod and go into the main part of the basement, pointing my light in the direction of the stairs that lead to the main floor of the house. Since my arrival in New Orleans a couple days ago, we've been conducting our investigation on nothing more than tenuous leads and hunches. Tonight we'd been led to this house by a little of both: neighbours reported the owner missing and Monica, hearing about it from a friend on the New Orleans police force, suggested that we investigate.

I tried to squash the idea the minute she came up with it. "It's a matter for the local police, Monica, not two visiting FBI agents," I told her.

She looked at me calmly. "I've already got permission for us to go, and I think we should. You know how long it'll take the police to get there. To them, it's just a missing persons report - and one made by neighbours, not next of kin. It's way, way out of town, and they're busy. It'll be at the bottom of their list." She gestured with her hands, "We've got the body of one woman in the morgue, two in New York just buried, and I have a feeling- "

She had 'a feeling', and that's how I ended up here, leaving a house with a body in its basement. A basement, for godsakes. How many basements are there in this neck of Louisiana? Two? The water table's so high here you can't dig a hole to plant a potato without hittin' water. No one builds basements here - not 'nless they're lookin' to have a fishpond at the bottom of the cellar stairs. Monica, of course, has not only managed to find a house with a basement, but a house with a basement with a body in it. Go figure.

Glancing over at her, I can see that she's not in the least struck by the incongruity of the body's location. She's still mentally refining her theory, mulling over whatever it is she mulls over when she takes her leaps of logic.

Her cell phone rings, startling us both.

Reaching the top of the stairs, she stops and after a moment of fumbling takes out her phone, presses a button, and says, "Reyes here."

She steps out into the kitchen area of the small bungalow, phone to her ear, listening carefully to whoever is on the line. There's a long silence. She stops, nods a few times, frowns once or twice, but otherwise gives no indication as to what is being said or by whom.

Finally, she says, "Thanks, Peter, I owe you. I'll get back to you as soon as I can." She listens again. "That would be nice, it's been a while..." Her smile widens at something Peter says. "You're the best," she says before hitting the 'end' button.

Still smiling, she looks at me and catches me staring. With a slightly flustered air, she drops the smile and explains: "An old friend - he let me know about the missing persons report. I called before we left and asked him to look up some information for me. I worked with him a few times when I was here in our New Orleans office. He's a good guy."

"I'm sure he is," I say, already certain I don't like him much.

Changing the subject, she starts moving toward the kitchen door. "Let's get outside. I could use some fresh air."

I follow her out, wondering about Peter and the information he's been gathering for my partner. For one fleeting moment I think about mentioning what I saw in the basement, then decide I'll take up knitting, first. The last thing I need is her getting all het up over something I imagined.

Under the light of a hazy full moon, we take deep breaths of night air to clear our lungs. I'm expecting silence, but discover a night filled with sound. Beneath our feet, the buzz of unseen insects creates a crazy counterpoint to a cicada's hum. A gentle, warm whisper of air carries the rustling sound of small mammals scurrying in the bushes that skirt the front yard; peepers sing insistently in a nearby bijou. In the far distance, I can hear the faint crunching sound of a car driving over gravel.

This is all just background noise, though: my attention is really focussed on my partner, and wondering what she's thinking. I'm pretty sure it involves things I don't want to hear - things I'll have to persuade her against every step we take.

A harsh scratching noise, and a match flames into life. Monica's face appears briefly in its yellow glow, then disappears as she inhales on a fresh cigarette. Soon, the smell of tobacco will reach me, stirring up the old, familiar hunger for nicotine I don't think I'll ever get over. I quit years ago, but not because I was disgusted with the habit. Hell, I loved it: the taste, the feel of smoke lingering in my lungs, the texture of the white, golden tipped cylinder between my fingers. Occasionally I indulge in one, but not, I decide, tonight.

Pulling away from thoughts of life's little pleasures, my mind trails back to the body lying in the basement. The bloody marks on the palms of the hands and feet tell me what I am sure forensics will later - the woman has, at some point, had nails driven through her hands and feet, then had a knife stuck into her stomach. Like the other women, she probably bled to death. She hadn't died here, though: there isn't enough blood on the basement floor and there is no evidence to indicate that they'd been anywhere else in the house. Where she'd been tortured and why she'd been brought back to lie in the basement of her own home is yet another mystery.

There's also the Bible to consider. We'll have to see if something's significant about what's on those open pages. Monica will think there is. Given the Bibles found at the other sites, she's likely correct. I sigh. Four women: Patricia Hendricks, Alicia Livingston, Ursula DeBois, and now Lelia Gorse. All dead. All tortured in the same way, their only apparent connection the fact that they were murdered by the same guy. There's no proof yet that the murders were done by the same person, mind you, but you'd have to be crazy not to think so at this point.

The sound of tires grating on stone becomes louder and headlights span the yard. The local police have arrived.

_What does God look like, Daddy?_

It's going to be a long night.

Four hours later, we're back at our hotel and ready to compare notes.

"The bodies in New York and the other one here were laid out ceremoniously," I say, lifting the folder in her direction. "This one wasn't. Different killer?"

I don't think it is for a minute, but I have to consider all possibilities.

"No. He was disturbed before he was finished, that's all."

"You sound pretty certain."

Of course she is. Visibly stifling her impatience at what she thinks is my stubbornness, she defends her statement: "The other crime scenes are too similar for it not to have been the same killer. The details haven't been released to the media, so there would be no way of knowing that the Bible should be there, or the candles-"

"-Or that the body would have its hands and feet pierced? I suppose you're right, but what about the newspaper articles on the wall? And the photographs? That's new."

Monica frowns and leafs though papers until she finds the crime scene photos. "For now, I'm assuming the killer put them there: they're not dusty or mouldy the way you'd expect if they'd been hanging there in the damp for years. To be honest, I'm not sure about them. They don't seem to be related to any one particular thing, though they're all from the religion section of the weekend edition of the New Orleans Tribune. Some of them date back more than ten years." Shrugging, she looks up and makes another of her leaps: "Maybe he's getting impatient at our lack of progress. He's taunting us with information he thinks we should have already discovered for ourselves."

"You're saying he wants to get caught?" This is me, playing devil's advocate. Monica looks thoughtful a moment, then shakes her head slowly. "No, but we're supposed to figure something out. There's something he wants us to know or understand. Perhaps in order to explain or justify his actions."

This is way too big a leap for a simple man like me to follow, so I let it lie. Holding up copies of the articles, I ask, "So we pay close attention to what's in these?"

Monica nods. "We need a Bible, too."

Standing, I walk to my bedside table and retrieve a black-covered Bible from a drawer.

"Thank you, Gideon," Monica says with a smile. Giving me a piece of paper, she says, "Here's the list of book and chapters open at the other crime scenes. See if you can find anything significant in what he was reading. I'll go through these articles."

I nod. With the heel of my hand, I swipe at the beads of sweat on my forehead. It's hot. Very hot. And humid, too. I look at Monica, who appears cool and comfortable in the capri pants and tank top she changed into before joining me in my room. I regret not putting on more casual clothing, too. It's one problem, at least, that I can fix. I undo my tie and move to unbutton my shirt. I stop when I notice Monica watching me, an amused look on her face.

"What?" I ask, irritated because I suspect the source of her amusement.

"I wondered how long it would take you to give in to the climate."

"There's no 'giving in' to it, I just want to be comfortable. If you want to work all night, I'll be damned if I'm gonna sit here and fry while we do it," I grumble. Pulling my shirt tails out of my pants, I remove my dress shirt. If she weren't here, I'd take off my t-shirt, too.

Something flashes in her eyes as she watches me, but it's gone before I can decipher what it is. "Well, get to it," she says. "I'll fetch us something cold to drink in a few minutes."

"Sounds good."

Sitting down, I bend my head over the book I'm holding and try to shut out the feeling of intimacy that has suddenly filled the room.

Forty-five minutes later, Monica looks up from her reading and stretches. "I'll go get something now. What'll you have?"

"Whatever's cold and wet," I reply, still silently cursing the lack of decent air conditioning. I'm told that the heat wave has put a serious strain on the power system and the public has been asked to restrict their use of electricity. Based on the room temperature, I'd say some civic minded person has decided we should all swelter for the common good.

Monica rises and grabs some change out of her wallet and the ice bucket off the table.

I watch as she leaves, noting with satisfaction the dampness on the back of her tank top and its proof that the heat's affecting her as much as it is me. I sit back, stretch out my legs, and look at the wall. I'm immediately confronted by a painting of the most unlikely looking blue-tinged trees I've ever seen. They're standing beside a brown river slugging its way through a lime-green countryside. Purple mountains hang in the background. The whole mess is hung over my bed and is one damn ugly piece of work - worse, even, than you usually get in places where no one much cares about what's hangin' on the wall. I get to my feet and walk to the balcony door in search of a better view and maybe cooler air.

It isn't much of a balcony and is barely deep enough for me to go out on and, should I want to, slide the door behind me. The street's empty: not even the alley cats are prepared to brave this heat. The air is still and oppressive and feels full of things unseen - and somewhere out there, someone who has murdered too many times is planning to do it again.

The sound of a door clicking closed makes me turn. Monica is back with two cans of Coke and a filled bucket of ice. She goes into the small bathroom and returns with two glasses wrapped in paper. Discarding the wrappings, she places a generous amount of ice in each and slowly pours the dark, fizzy liquid over it.

_This is good, Daddy._

Finished, she picks them both up and walks to where I stand. After I take the glass offered, she holds hers up in a silent toast.

I lift mine in response and we both take a cooling sip. Monica then leans over the railing, her elbows resting on its flat metal top. I look at her, appreciating the lines of her back and ass and the swell of her breasts as she leans forward. Abruptly, I look away. There's been something different between us the last while that I haven't been able to put my finger on. Noticing things like her figure makes me uncomfortable. We work together, for gawdsakes. We're FBI.

But her hair looks soft and her skin smooth, and my thoughts still wander where they shouldn't.

She turns dark eyes toward me and smiles. She says something, but I don't catch it because I'm thinking she's beautiful and wondering what it would feel like to-

She stops talking and I'm left with no idea what I'm supposed to say. Fortunately, she turns away, so perhaps a response isn't needed. Maybe I'm just overtired, but I can't seem to keep my thoughts from wandering where they please. I wonder about her relationship with Brad Follmer and why it ended - and how it is for her working with him now. I've seen the way he looks at her and can guess that for him, at least, there's still something there. Is it reciprocated? I sigh inwardly. Does it matter? We're partners, and in a strange sort of way, friends; no way would I screw it up by screwing around with her.

But my hands wonder what it would be like to feel her skin beneath them.

She straightens up and asks abruptly, "Find anything?"

At first, I'm startled. Was my examination of her so obvious? Then sanity resumes and I shake my head. "Nope. Maybe I don't know enough about what I'm reading to know I've seen something. Far as I can tell, it's just the usual stuff about what you should do and what you shouldn't do."

_But Daddy! I want to! I want to!_

And what I want to do right now is the last thing I should do.

Our eyes meet and hold. There is a question in hers. And surprise, perhaps. We stand for a moment, frozen. There's a sense of vertigo, of wanting to fall toward her. I know I shouldn't, but oh, I want to...

She breaks the spell by glancing toward the skyline. A faint glow of daylight has begun to show, and she says quickly, "It's going to be light soon. I'm going to lie down in my room for a while. A couple hours sleep might help me think more clearly."

I nod, reluctant to see her go. When the door closes behind her, the room feels empty, and I feel very, very alone.

_Daddy, I need a hug._

Me, too, son. Me, too.

* * *

Chapter 2

The heat is oppressive, making my tie and collar feel like a sweaty noose. We've been back out to the house, have spoken to neighbours and friends, tried to contact family, and are now waiting for the autopsy report. Most of what we've discovered is much the same as we learned from the other murders. There's certainly no mistaking that this is part of a series of killings. Somewhere is the piece of evidence that will lead us to the man doing this. It'll take time, but we'll get him. My worry is that it'll take us longer to find him than it will take him to find his next victim - or move on to another city.

My stomach makes its presence known with a long, low growl. The sandwiches we grabbed at a gas station on the way to the house were awful, and it's all we've had all day. Now we're back in the office the New Orleans Police Department has supplied us. Looking at Monica, I ask, "Why don't we go get somethin' to eat? We'll think better on full stomachs."

Monica raises her head from the report she's reading and nods. Though I don't think she minds the heat as much as me, she seems to be fighting an unusual sense of lethargy. She's been withdrawn and quiet, and that's not like her. I don't feel comfortable asking her if there's something wrong, though. Hell, I'm half scared to. I never know what's going to come out of that mouth of hers.

"I invited Kelly to join us for dinner. I'll call and let her know we'll be ready fairly soon," she says, reaching for the phone.

I try not to show my dismay. I met Kelly briefly my second night here, and the woman's okay, but a little unusual for my tastes. She's not the kind of person I'd expect Monica to be friends with. Then again, from what I can tell, my partner's got a side to her I haven't had an opportunity to see. This Kelly person must be part of that side.

"Know any place that's good and nearby?"

She pauses to think. "She can meet us at _Jakes's_," she decides.

I remember seeing the restaurant she named and feel a little better. It's close enough I can escape if I want to without feeling as though I should stick around and see Monica safely back to the hotel. I'm not saying she'd need the escort - God forbid. I'm just sayin' I'd feel as though I ought to provide it.

Replacing the phone on the receiver, Monica pulls a strand of limp hair behind her ear. "Kelly will meet us in about an hour and a half. I want to go back to the hotel and shower and change first. We've more than paid our dues to the suit gods today."

My stomach protests at the delay, but the thought of getting out of my shirt and noose makes me agree readily. As we leave the police station and walk toward our rental car, I realise what she's just said is the most she's said at one time all day. I glance at her. Like I said before, not talking isn't like her. There's definitely something about this case that's bothering her in a way I don't get.

After cleaning up, we arrive at the restaurant to find Kelly already waiting in line. She was smart enough to put our names down as soon as she arrived, so all we have to do is stand around until they call our names. That's something I've noticed about this city: no one seems to take phone reservations here - they'd rather you show up and stand around at their door like a herd of cattle, lowing in hungry frustration until they decide to let you in.

Maybe the psychology of that isn't bad. The food, once we're finally ushered in and seated, is damn good. My blackened steak is great, and if I knew how, I'd wax poetical over the rice. I can't identify everything that's in it, but given some of the stuff I saw on the menu, that may be for the best.

As I eat, Kelly and Monica talk in a shorthand I stop trying to keep up with. Snatches of things now and again make sense, but for the most part they talk of people and places and things I'm not familiar with. It's easy to tune them out, but once coffee is served, I do the polite thing and settle down to listen better.

Monica looks over at me and smiles. "You've been awfully quiet."

Shrugging, I tell her, "You guys needed time to catch up."

"I'm sorry if you felt cut out," Kelly says. Tilting her blonde-haired head to one side, she smiles. In a soft, clear voice that makes her southern accent a sort of whispered song, she adds, "I was worried about taggin' along, thinkin' you might want to talk about the case. Monica said y'all wouldn't mind extra company, though."

I refrain from shooting a glance at Monica, and ask, "You've known Monica a long time?"

My partner hasn't spoken much about her off-duty life in New York or her life here in New Orleans. This is an opportunity to learn, and I take it. There's a lot about her I don't know - and a lot of it I'm beginning to think she's deliberately kept quiet about. Kelly and I launch into a conversation about how she and Monica met (in a clothing store), where they lived (in the same apartment building), places they went (night clubs, a place called _The Talisman_, parks) the people they knew (too many names to remember). Even with all this information, I get the feeling that there are things she's not telling me, but it's still obvious that the Monica living in New Orleans was a little less circumspect than the Monica presently residing in Georgetown.

"What's '_The Talisman'_?" I ask Kelly after the second time she's mentioned it.

"A club over on Contreau Drive. It's an unusual place; we loved it." She looks at Monica and grins, "Wouldn't it be fun t' just drop by? Why don't we? John might like it."

Monica looks at me. "I don't think it'd be something he'd be interested in."

"It's up to you," I say, knowing she doesn't want to go, but doesn't want me to know that she doesn't.

"We're not really dressed for it, John," Monica says, "And we ought to turn in early - we didn't get much sleep last night, remember."

Kelly glances between Monica and me, a spark of interest lighting up her eyes. Finally she settles on Monica, a smile on her face. "Oh?" she asks in a long, drawn-out tone. She doesn't ask what we were doin' to keep us up, but I know which way her mind's leaning. Monica just frowns at her. Unabashed by Monica's reaction to her wayward thoughts, Kelly shrugs, mutters something that sounds like "y'can'tblameagirlforhopin'" and then says lightly, "Well then, get your beauty sleep tonight and we'll try for another time. Thursdays are usually good - there won't be much of a lineup but there'll still be a good crowd. You don't have to worry about something to wear - I still have that green dress of yours. It'll be perfect."

It's okay by me. Who knows, we may not even be here by Thursday. If we are, and if we're free to go, we don't have to stay long.

And there's always a chance the place will have decent air conditioning.

Conversation turns to a variety of things. I continue to find Kelly a little weird. I keep expecting her to whip out a crystal ball and tell my fortune. I'm willing to bet she has one in her apartment, and I'm just as willing to bet she uses it.

Monica feels like taking a walk before going back to the hotel. I say okay, and to my surprise Kelly comes along, too. Once we've left the restaurant behind, she asks, "Can y'all talk about the case, or is it all hush hush?"

Monica rescues me from doing the 'we just met and already I'm telling you to mind your own business' thing.

"You know what it's like, Kelly."

She nods. "Okay. But I hope you find him fast. Somethin' tells me there's a twist to this 'un no one's seein'."

Monica's brows draw together, but she doesn't say anything.

"There's somethin' different about this one, Mon," Kelly shakes her head and then continues in a subdued tone. "People are talkin'...I gotta a real bad feelin' about this. Things aren't right." She looks like she wants to say more, but after a glance at me, stays silent.

I look at them, unable to figure out what she's talking about. People talking? There's nothing to talk about - the papers haven't been given anything to report. A bad feeling? I turn my head to look at Monica's friend a little better. Then it dawns on me. I've learned all sorts of things about 'feelings' from my partner. Shit. I was right to think Kelly was a little freaky. She's into 'feeling things' too.

After Kelly leaves, I ask Monica a few questions. It's a mistake. By the time we're back at the hotel we're having an all out argument.

_Don't yell, Daddy!_

Standing in the hallway outside our doors, I tell her, "Look, you can't take her seriously! This is none of her business, and if anyone found out that you were consulting a psychic for information on this case-"

"I'm not consulting her; she's not a psychic - at least not exactly - and what's wrong with using information she gives us if it helps? I know her, John. She's worth listening to."

"She's a nut."

Conversation stops. Monica just looks at me and shakes her head. She seems to deflate somehow.

"What?" I ask.

Her voice now low and calm, she says, "You don't want to fight over this any more than I do. Go to bed. Perhaps we can talk about this in the morning. We're too tired to make sense now."

"You're too tired, maybe. I'm makin' perfectly good sense. Leave this psychic mumbo jumbo stuff alone, Monica. It's not going to help us. What we need are facts and a few good, solid leads."

She opens her mouth to respond, then shakes her head again and uses her door card. When the release catches, she opens the door and turns. "Good night, John."

"Good night, Monica."

_Good night, Daddy. I love you._

* * *

Chapter 3

It's an accident of timing and location. The night is still and the street empty. I'm walking a dark, poorly lit street with nothing but the sound of my heels hitting the sidewalk for company. Most of the houses I pass are in darkness. Maybe that's why I pay attention to the windows that are lit. Anyway, passing a bungalow set close to the street, I see the shape of a woman silhouetted against a blind pulled hard down. She's holding a baby and pacing back and forth. Once in a while, she jiggles the baby in her arms up and down, as though to comfort it. Memories of Luke as a baby washing over me, I stop to watch.

The silhouette places the baby carefully on a table in front of the window and gently removes its diaper. The baby's legs kick in the air and I imagine it gurgling happily, pleased to be free of covering. The woman turns slightly to reach for something, then raises her arm over her head. A knife is clenched in her fist. It plunges downward as I surge forward, a cry of protest on my lips.

Heart pounding, bathed in sweat, I sit up abruptly, shreds of dream still clinging to me.

_Bad dream, Daddy..._

Sagging back onto the pillows and taking some long, slow breaths, my thoughts begin to clear. This is the third night in a row I've been woken by a nightmare that's left me shivering and my heart pounding. They've all been different, but they've all involved murder. I look at the clock. The night's only half over, but I don't think I'm going to get more sleep. I lie there quietly for a while, then rise and walk across the floor to the balcony. Sliding the door open, I step out.

Exhaling loudly, I put my hands on the railing and look down, letting my mind drift, trying to shake off the remaining shreds of dream.

The feeling of being watched makes me turn my head slowly.

Monica's standing quietly on the balcony next to mine, the glowing ember of a cigarette held up in one hand.

"What are you doing awake?"

"Couldn't sleep."

Her short, softly spoken answer suits my mood perfectly. "Me, neither," I say before turning away and leaning on the balcony rail.

I'm not sure how much time passes. The night feels better now, the air not so filled with things unseen. The dream, so real when I awoke, is blurred and the fright of it all but gone. Slowly, an awareness of Monica replaces it. Turning to look at her more fully, I notice what I hadn't before: she is dressed in a dark-coloured satiny affair that slides over her body like liquid. Though it covers all the essentials, any man could see it's something not meant to be worn for long when there's company. My fingers imagine the slide of the material over her skin. I picture her body arching towards mine.

Then I remember Brad Follmer and what I don't know about her relationship with him.

"You should get some sleep," I suggest, setting aside my errant thoughts and stepping toward my door. My boxers are decent, but I'm suddenly feeling way underdressed.

"Not yet. I'll see you in the morning."

I wonder what drove her out here in the dead of night. The fleeting impulse to tell her about my dreams is quickly set aside. It's not important. Not knowing what else to say, I nod. She doesn't look at me directly, staring instead into the distance. Remembering our less than amicable parting earlier tonight, I ask: "Is everything okay?" when I really mean 'Are we okay?'.

She nods and looks at me now with dark, tired eyes. "Everything's fine. I just need to think."

I leave her and enter my room, wishing she'd tell me what put her out on the balcony in the middle of the night. One thing about Monica: she's never shy about saying what's on her mind. At the moment, though, she's keeping something pretty close to her chest, something that's really getting to her. I'm worried maybe she's come up with a theory about this case that's so weird it frightens even her.

The further thought that she's not sharing it with me fills me with an inexplicable sense of loss.

_Daddy, I'll stay with you._

We muddle through breakfast, Monica distant, me pretending I don't notice. Carefully, I suggest we part ways for the morning and follow different leads.

Monica shrugs. "Sounds good to me. I'll take the evidence room."

I'm surprised at her quick offer - it's probably 90 degrees down there. It's dirty, dusty, and poorly lit. No place to want to be.

"You sure?"

She nods, and I know better than to argue. Obviously, there's something down there she needs to do or see. Just as obviously, she doesn't want to talk about what or why. I wonder if I've lost some of her trust, but reassure myself it's just the heat creating this feeling of distance. I tell myself that rest and cooler temperatures would make everything look different. Perhaps a morning apart will help.

Four hours later, I find Monica still in the evidence room, sitting amid boxes filled with items gathered from the latest murder scene. She's holding something in her hand, but isn't looking at it. Instead, she's staring straight ahead, a faraway look in her eyes. She's totally unaware of my approach.

"Monica."

She starts at the sound of my voice.

"John."

"What've you got there?" I ask, trying to bring her back from wherever she was.

She glances down at the object in her hand as though not knowing how it got there. With a shrug, she looks back up at me and says, "Just a scarf."

"You looked as though it was important."

She shakes her head and carefully sets aside the evidence bag with its bright, yellow silken contents. "No, not important. At least I don't think so."

_Daddy, say you're sorry._

"Have you had lunch?"

I know she hasn't, but ask anyway.

"No. I haven't been keeping track of time."

"Did you get much done?" I ask, not knowing what it was she had to do.

She pauses, surveying the stacks of boxes surrounding her. "I've gone through all the evidence from both murders. There has to be a link between these women. They don't look the same, work the same job, live in the same area, know the same people, or go to the same places. There's nothing - nothing - to tie them together. Yet the killer chose them. What's the criteria?"

Spreading her arms to indicate the boxes of evidence, she says, "It's right here, but I'm not seeing it. I need to run up to New York to take a look at the evidence there."

I don't like the idea of her leaving, or of me being left alone in New Orleans. That'll just let whatever is going on with her go on for longer. I'm thinking it's time we sat down and talked. Maybe I can get her to let me in on what's bothering her. "Let's go grab some lunch. We can hash things over then," I suggest.

She looks at me and visibly attempts to shake off whatever solemn mood has beset her. She smiles. "Food: your answer to all life's troubles."

My face relaxes. "Not all of them - just the ones I can't do anything but think about. Besides," I add smiling, "If that were true, I'd be big as a barn by now."

She smiles back at me. I feel her eyes quickly graze over my body like a physical touch.

"Well, you're not that, at least." she says. "Let's go find something to eat. Things won't look so dismal on a full stomach."

Moving closer to her, I pick up one of the boxes, look at the number on it, and walk down a corridor to put it back in place. Returning, I find her still sitting. She's holding two evidence bags in her hands and frowning. With a sigh, she places each into two different boxes and rises. In five minutes, we have everything back in order and head out to find a place to eat.

Walking into the restaurant behind Monica, the first person I see is Kelly. My heart sinks. She waves us over to her table as though she's been expecting us. With Monica smiling and halfway across the crowded room already, I can't do much but follow. Obviously, we're expected to sit with her. I should feel grateful - the place is packed, so we'd have had a long wait, otherwise - but I don't. She looks at me and our eyes lock. For the first time I realise she knows exactly how I feel about her. I realise something else, too: she doesn't give a shit.

_You're funny, Daddy._

We reach the table, and after a polite, quick hello to me, Kelly turns her attention to Monica. The two friends chat. Their talk flows over me, individual words as indistinguishable as single raindrops in a downpour. I feel cut off, detached. I can't shrug off the idea that Monica is keeping me out, removing herself somehow. There's definitely something on her mind she's not sharing. Watching the two women, the thought crosses my mind that Kelly might know what I don't. I feel an odd sort of jealousy, then quickly dismiss it as foolish. Women talk, and they talk to each other. Still, it bothers me that whatever it is, Monica hasn't trusted me enough to talk to me. I'd hoped we were closer than that; that she trusted me.

As though sensing my thoughts, Kelly spears me with a clear, blue-eyed gaze. I shove aside an inexplicable feeling of guilt.

Her eyes probe mine. "Do you have any idea what you want?" she asks.

Her emphasis on the 'any' makes the words carry meaning I can't respond to.

Seemingly oblivious to the undercurrents between her friend and me, Monica speaks up. "Try the special," she suggests. "It's always good."

A waiter magically appears by our table. "I'll take the special," I say obediently, passing my menu to him. He then takes Monica and Kelly's order, smiles at them both, and leaves.

It's only once he's gone that I think to wonder what today's special is. Kelly looks at me, amused.

The business of ordering over, the two women appear to decide to concentrate on me. At first, I feel like a deer caught in headlights, but after a while I find myself relaxing. I'm not so far gone it's not nice to sit at a table with two attractive women taking an interest in what I have to say - even if both of them make me uneasy.

Gradually, talk drifts toward the case. Monica breaks the ice by asking: "You didn't find anything of interest this morning?"

I shake my head. The papers have finally been given some information to report, so I know I'm not making public anything new when I say, "Leila Gorse is just like the others: a regular person going about her regular life. There's nothing special about her, nothing that explains her being singled out for murder - and certainly not this type of murder."

"You believe the murders were random, then?"

This from Kelly. I can tell she knows damn well we don't think any such thing. Glancing at Monica, I say, "No. We've just got to look for a common element in their lives. It's probably right in front of us - we're just not seeing it yet."

"And finding the common element is what you need in order to catch the man doing this."

"It'd sure help."

A small frown creases her brow. Looking pensive, she says slowly, "The similarity may not be something external - perhaps it's something more difficult to find. Perhaps what they have in common is something they tried very hard to keep secret on purpose." She looks at Monica, her eyes cloudy with thought. Again, after a glance at me she stops speaking.

_Daddy! Listen!_

* * *

Chapter 4

The office we've been given to work out of is small and furnished with only the essentials - two desks, two chairs, and a couple of phones. The walls are a dingy gray - either from age or design, I'm not sure. The furniture has all seen better days: a loose spring in the seat of the ancient chair I've taken is an irritation that makes pacing the floor a pleasure.

My thoughts are disturbed by the sound of my cell phone ringing. I take it out of my pocket, push "talk", and say my name. As I listen, adrenaline rushes up my spine, accompanied by a sense of inevitability.

Another body's been found.

Putting my cell away, I turn to Reyes. "They've found another one. Looks like the same MO."

She looks at me, surprised.

Regardless of her expectations, we have another scene to investigate. Without speaking, she begins to gather her things. I just stand and watch. She's given up on the suit thing and is wearing a white sleeveless shirt tucked into light khaki-coloured pants. I wonder what it would be like to be more than her FBI partner, what it would be like to watch her gather her things before we left together for work in the morning. I wonder about the times I've thought that might be possible. And I wonder if she's ever thought the same thing, if she'd ever be ready... if she could maybe see me as more than a guy with a sad history who's a pretty good agent.

She halts suddenly and looks over at me. "What?"

Caught, I shrug and look away. "I'm ready when you are."

Taking my car keys out of my pocket, I avoid thinking about the double entendre of my words.

_Are you ready, Daddy? Where're we going?_

I have no idea....

End  
New Orleans Part 1


	2. Chapter 2

New Orleans

Part 2

Chapter 5

After travelling an hour, I figure we should almost be at the crime scene. We still haven't eaten, but that isn't such a priority now.

We've been directed to a remote area God knows where outside the city, and the sorry excuse for a road we're on is nothing more than a dirt track so narrow bushes sometimes scrape the car as we pass. I wonder if there's going to be a place we can turn our vehicles around, or if we're going to back out the two miles or so we've come since the turnoff from the main road.

A glance at Monica and I decide to keep my thoughts to myself. The quiet between us is not comfortable and I'm seriously starting to wish she'd talk about what's on her mind. The set of her jaw tells me she won't be sharing anything soon, though.

Sighing inwardly, I look at the crumpled map lying on the console beside me. This so-called road isn't on it. Maybe we're lost, and this rutted track leads nowhere. It's hard not to complain out loud, but I keep quiet and reduce my speed still more as the road gets even rougher.

Just as I seriously begin to think the local police may be pulling a funny by sending the visiting feebies on a wild goose chase, I turn a sharp corner and almost run into the rear end of a police cruiser. It's one of several parked in single file in front of us, and since we can't go past them, I pull our rental in behind the last one in line. We're here, wherever 'here' is.

A young officer leaning against one of the police cars stands as our car draws to a halt. He's been there a while, by my guess: his shirt is sweat stained and crumpled. Poor sucker's so green he doesn't dare get in a car and start up the air conditioning. He's been told to stay there and wait, and stay there and wait is exactly what he did, never mind the dangers of heatstroke.

The usual introductions completed, he leads us into woods so dense the tree branches overhead block out the sunlight. Walking wordlessly in an eerie false dusk, the air around us feels damp and filled with malevolence. Dread crawls up my spine. Reaching a clearing, I see a group of people huddled together on the far side of it.

_Where are we, Daddy?_

A sense of deja vu sweeps over me. Remembering the gray, November day my life was changed forever, I glance at Monica. Her face is expressionless. Perhaps she is also taken back to another day, another clearing, another body.

As we continue our approach, one person steps away from the group and meets us halfway. Tall, lean, and dark haired, he flashes perfect teeth as he puts his arms out towards Monica, drawing her into a hug that she reciprocates with notable enthusiasm. When they finally part, he keeps his hands on her shoulders and looks down at her like he's been waiting for this moment for months.

"Monica," he exclaims, "I can't believe how long it's been! You look wonderful! God, it's good to see you." He looks ready to hug her again, but then seems to remember the circumstance of their meeting and loses some of his_ joie de vie. _Tearing his eyes away from her, he looks over toward the other side of the clearing for a brief moment and says, "Sorry it's over this. Did you get the faxes I sent?"

Monica nods and smiles up at him, apparently just as glad to see him as he is to see her. "I did, thanks. You've been great." Glancing over at me, she casually moves out of the man's grasp and says, "Peter, I'd like you to meet my partner, Special Agent John Doggett. John, meet one of New Orlean's finest: Detective Peter Haliburton."

I put out my hand to shake his. He smiles and looks me straight in the eye as he says his how'dya do. I stare right back, realising - and not liking - that he's sizing me up as though maybe I'm not up to being Monica's partner.

"You're familiar with the other murders?" I ask, getting right down to business.

"Yes, sir. Monica and I have been keeping each other up to date informally for a while, now. This one's the only one found outside," he says, looking over his shoulder, "but it has all the signature features of the others, here and in New York."

I stifle a nasty surge of irritation at the 'Yes, sir.' I'm not that much older than he is. Shaking off my resentment, I turn without comment and head towards the body. It's important I see the site myself before getting his impressions. It also stops me from saying something unpleasant. Or something that makes me look like an idiot. Peter, of course, does the polite thing and waits for Monica. Squelching the urge to look back to see if his hand is on her back, I continue forward.

The policemen standing by the body step back at my approach. Ignoring them, I look down at the body.

Eyes closed, the yet-to-be-identified woman looks as though she's sleeping, her long, pale hair strewn about her head like a halo. She lies on her back, hands loosely placed one over the other on her stomach. The top hand shows bloody evidence that it's been pierced - the red wound shows up starkly against her pale flesh. Her slender, denim-clad legs stretch out straight, her bare feet showing wounds similar to those on her hands.

Looking more closely, I can see that there's a blood stain on her shirt, just under her ribs. It's partially hidden by her right arm, but I'm ready to bet it's the same sort of wound the other women experienced: the wound that led to their bleeding to death.

I look at the ground around the body - there's no indication of anyone's passage.

"Tire marks?" I ask, gesturing toward the road.

Peter answers. "Hard to say just yet. This is a popular spot for hunting; it was a local hunter who found her. His tracks, plus anyone else's' who've been in and out of these parts - including us - makes for a mess. Our boys will have a look and see what they can decipher."

His tone doesn't hold out much hope, and I can't blame him.

I look around some more. Monica has gone over to crouch down beside a book I know must be a Bible. It's open, of course, and is placed between two half-burned candles. She turns and says, "Different book and page."

I shrug. So what else is new? I haven't got very far with finding a link between the passages and the victims. For all I know the murderer just tosses the Bible there and opens it any ol' place just for the hell of it. What interests me is that the candles were lit. I figure that indicates she was dropped here at night. To find this place in the dark he'd have to be pretty familiar with the area. Maybe he's a local.

Private speculations finished for the moment, I turn again to look at the body. Time grinds to a halt. My surroundings blur, becoming splashes of green and brown and police navy blue. The body lies in sharp relief against its mossy bed, burned beyond recognition. The smell of cooked flesh fills the air. I stagger slightly, recoiling.

"John?"

_Daddy!_

Time resumes its regular pace. Monica looks at me with concern.

I close my eyes tightly and wipe by brow. "Yeah?"

She looks at me, then glances at the others. "Nothing," she says, but her eyes promise 'later'.

I force myself not to think. I'm just tired and hallucinating. Sweat trickles down my back beneath my now limp shirt. Likely dehydrated, too.

Twenty minutes later, Monica approaches me, Peter hot on her heels. "I'm driving back into the city with Peter," Monica tells me. With Peter standing right there, I make no comment other than to say 'okay'. We make arrangements to meet at our hotel when she gets in. We'll brief each other on our findings then.

"Peter says they've some new forensic information coming in soon about the last murder," Monica says.

Good for Peter. I tell her to bring it back to the hotel with her. Taking my keys out of my pocket, I traipse back to the car alone, wondering how the hell I'm supposed to get outta here.

_Daddy, are you okay?_

Chapter 6

There are times I envy Monica her certainties, her ability to believe the unbelievable.

There are other times it irritates the shit out of me. Right now is one of those latter times, so when she looks up at me over the profile that's been drawn up of the killer and says "This isn't right," I feel irritation rise.

"Why? It makes sense to me: young, religious, southern guy. Unmarried, an axe to grind against-"

Interrupting me with a wave of her hand, she says, "I know, I know, but it's still not right."

Her certainty boggles my mind. "Why?"

"I don't know. It doesn't feel right."

I flop against the back of my chair. Monica got back from her visit with Peter about a half an hour ago. She had the dinner we missed with him, picked up some stuff from his office, and brought it all with her. Now she's sitting comfortably, one foot on the seat of her chair, her knee tucked under her chin, disagreeing with work done by one of our best profilers.

"It doesn't 'feel' right?" I ask, just in case I heard wrong.

She shakes her head 'no' and looks away.

I sigh inwardly.

Now, make no mistake: I'm all for gut feelings. Good gut instinct is what makes the difference between a good FBI agent and a run-of-the-mill one. This time, though, I'm pretty sure the feelings she's talking about are a little more than just your regular, everyday gut instinct. She has that look she gets at times, that look that says she 'knows' something through means I can't figure out and refuse to acknowledge.

I look at her closely. There's something else about her, though, an unease, a discomfort about things that goes beyond the usual. I can't shake the idea there's something she's keeping from me. In fact, I'm goddamn positive she's got reasons she thinks this profile is wrong that go way beyond what she's admitting.

I tilt my head to one side, still looking at her steadily. Maybe it's time to clear the air between us, time to have everything out in the open.

"It's more than just a feeling, this time, isn't it?" The tone I use makes the question a statement.

She considers her answer carefully. I can almost see her turning it around in her mind. "I can't see this profile being right," she finally says. "This isn't the guy I picture."

A shadowed figure muttering in the dark. I remember the impression of youth washed in the fervour of crusade...No, this profile doesn't match what I saw while in that dark basement, either, but I can't tell her that.

"This guy," I say, referring to the profiler whose work we're discussing, "he knows what he's doing. He's one of our best."

She nods. "I know. But this killer isn't your typical serial killer."

"Monica, there's no such thing," I grunt.

"No," she agrees. "Maybe that's why this seems too pat a description. I mean, really - a southern Baptist, poorly educated, brought up in a rural setting, probably on a farm..."

She looks up from the notes she's reading. "Probably on a farm?" she asks, tossing the report onto the table in front of her. "It sounds like he's copying from some encyclopaedia of stereotypes, for godsakes."

I still hold out hope the profiler's right. I don't understand what I saw in that basement, and seeing that woman turn to ash...that was just a result of dehydration and remembering my son's death. I pause, remembering my dreams... then shake my head. This case is doin' weird things to my mind.

_Daddy, I'm scared._

Pushing my worries aside, I keep at her, trying to find out what's been going on with her the past couple days. "Why don't you tell me the real reason you think this profile is crap?"

She looks troubled. "I told you - I just feel he's overlooking something."

I sit and stare at her, unconvinced and letting her know it. Since we started working together, the trust between us has come to mean a lot to me. It's the one thing I could rely on during the crazy days of searching for my son, it's what I relied on when I needed help getting Scully out of town for William's birth, and it's what led to my wanting her on the X- Files with me.

Looking over at her, I realise for the first time that maybe the trust isn't mutual. Maybe her trust in me leaves something to be desired. The idea of her not trustin' me doesn't sit well.

The phone rings and Monica moves quickly to answer it, relieved, no doubt, of the reprieve. She listens a moment, says a few things, asks a couple questions, then says, "Thanks, Kelly," and hangs up.

"That was Kelly," she announces needlessly.

"And?"

"She suggests we take a look at the older, professional types on our list."

"We don't have any." I don't think I can handle asking why Kelly thinks this and why Monica is going along with it. Since when did we invite Kelly in on this case, anyway? I thought I'd made myself pretty clear about what I thought of her mumbo jumbo stuff.

"We don't have any professional types because we're looking at the young, college age thing. Why don't we look at people in their forties and fifties?"

I don't have time to answer before the phone interrupts us again.

Monica answers and quickly reaches for paper and pen. Jotting some information down, she says we'll be there soon and hangs up.

I know what it is before she opens her mouth to tell me.

"Another one?"

She nods, and we both rise to leave.

Chapter 7

I stand in the middle of the apartment's large living room and shake my head. All the signs indicate the same killer did this murder. "This is crazy," I mutter, frustration eating at my gut. I'm stopped from saying more by a uniformed policeman coming over and asking if we're Doggett and Reyes. We both nod.

"Gotta message here for y'all from District 49. They got a murder over there with all the footprints of this one. They figure your guy has struck again and that you might want t'have a look before they take the body away."

We look at each other. Christ, he's murdering them faster than we can get around to seeing their bodies.

Half an hour and we're at the newest site. It's a shed in the back of a nice, two-story brick house in a nice, tidy suburb. The smell that greets us when we open the shed doors isn't so nice, however, and the condition of the body makes it obvious it's been there for a while. It'll take forensics to tell us for sure, but my guess is a couple weeks at least. Picture it: a couple weeks of raw meat in hot and humid weather. It ain't pretty. Flies, maggots and other assorted creatures have had a field day.

The owners of the property stand in the growing darkness, looking our way nervously. They've been in the middle of their overgrown backyard since we arrived, waiting, I guess, for us to talk to them. On our way back here, an officer had explained that they'd been away for two months, fishing in Colorado. They get back, and their dog runs to the back yard and starts going nuts. They call him, but he won't come. Finally the guy goes out. He tries to drag the dog away, but the dog won't have any of it and keeps barking at the shed. He decides to see if there's a raccoon or skunk holed up in there, goes in, and finds a woman's body instead. Not one of your more pleasant welcome homes.

When we finally make our way over to talk to them, the owner can't tell us much more other than that he doesn't recognise the woman. I tend to believe him. Of course, in her present condition, I don't think her own mother would.

We do our thing, talk to those who need talking to, and then head back to our rental. We drive a while, saying nothing.

This not talking business is starting to really bother me. Whatever's making her so quiet has got to be taken care of or I'm gonna go nuts. I got to do something about the way we've been, about the way she's been. I take a deep breath. "Monica, I think we should talk."

She responds immediately. "The operative word being 'we', John?"

Ouch. The question and her tone makes me look over at her.

"Keep your eyes on the road, John. You need to make a left at the next intersection."

Oh, God. I put my eyes back on the street. Her use of my name twice in a row tells me she means business. I sigh inwardly. I've known all along that she'd make me talk about what I've been seeing, and it makes sense she'd take this opportunity to make things a 'you tell me yours, and I'll tell you mine'. The idea of talking about bad dreams and hallucinations isn't attractive, but I know I'll agree to. No matter what, I have to know what's going on with her.

"John?"

Her voice startles me out of my thoughts.

Recollecting I'm supposed to be answering her question, I say, "Yeah, sure."

I'm certain she hears a hint of reluctance, but she settles back in her seat and says "Good," with a definite air of satisfaction.

We haven't spoken aloud what we're going to be talking about, but we both know.

Eyes still plastered on the road, I ask, "Your place or mine?"

"Mine. I hate that painting on your wall. It gives me the creeps."

Her comment surprises a smile out of me. "What? You've got something against brown water and florescent green trees? I thought the purple mountains were kind of a nice touch."

She smiles. That smile, and the knowledge we're finally going to clear the air between us, eases some of the tension in my back.

_Can I sit with you, Daddy?_

Once we've settled in her motel room, Monica starts right in by saying she wants me to tell her everything I've been keeping to myself since we arrived. There's the fleeting thought that perhaps I can avoid telling her I've been having nightmares, but I think better of it. If we're going to be honest, we've got to be totally honest. I sigh, nod my head in agreement, and then, just so she doesn't think I'm the only one who's been keeping things away from their partner, I remind her: "And you're gonna tell me what's been bothering you so much these past few days. I'm not the only one who's been keeping things to themselves."

She has the grace to look a little ashamed, and nods her head. "But you first," she orders. She has that determined look I know better than to bother with, so I start. Picking your fights is half the battle, right?

As I tell her about the weird things I've been experiencing, a weight seems to lift. I knew all along she wasn't going to think I was crazy - hell, she loves this stuff - but it still feels good to look over and see her dark eyes serious and interested. She frowns a bit as I get to my nightmares. I've managed one a night since I got here, and all of them had me waking, pulse racing. Her expression grows more and more concerned as I continue.

A flash of insight makes me ask: "You've been having nightmares, too, haven't you?"

She nods.

"Like mine?"

"Not about the same events exactly, but they had the same feel to them."

She's going to say it, so I figure I might as well say it first: "You think the dreams have something to do with the case, don't you?" My tone makes it sound more like an accusation than a question, but I can't help it.

Monica nods and I get a sinking feeling in my stomach.

She'd take to the idea of dreams being involved with the case as naturally as a duck takes to water. I, on the other hand, still wish I could blame them on a pastrami sandwich eaten too close to bedtime. Deep, deep down inside me, though, I can feel a crack opening up in my defences and I begin to consider that it might be possible.

"Tell me what you've been dreaming," I say.

_Daddy! Tell me a story!_

The genuine look of reluctance on her face concerns me. I lean forward, wanting to somehow reassure her with my presence, to let her know nothing can harm her while I'm here.

Slowly, she starts to speak.

"I've had several dreams. Each time, I've recognised the woman as one of the murder victims. Each time, the woman has been killing someone when I've come upon her."

She stops. I give her a moment. Then a flash of intuition prompts me to say, "But something's happened that makes it worse than just having a dream where you see murdered women committing murders of their own."

There's a moment's hesitation before she replies, "It's the last dream that's got me bothered. I've had it twice now...it's nighttime, and I'm walking near a river. There's a mist rising off the water, I can feel the damp of it on my skin. The ground along the riverbank is uneven, so I'm watching my feet. Gradually, I begin to sense something and look up. Ahead of me is a woman on her knees at the water's edge. She's bending over, with her hands in the water almost up to her elbows. As I walk towards her through the fog, I begin to see that she's holding a man's head under water. She's muttering something. As I get closer, the words make more sense. I recognise them as an incantation. I don't know if she hears me or simply senses my presence, but she stops abruptly and slowly turns her head to face me." She stops again.

I wait a moment. When it looks as though she needs it, I prompt her: "And?"

Her words come slowly. Looking down at her hands, she says, "In the dream, I know what she's doing - she's stealing the life force of the man she's murdering, capturing it before it returns into the world." She looks up at me, her dark eyes slowly focussing on mine. "An individual's life energy has great power for those who know how to use it. My interrupting her during the incantation robbed her of some of that. It was obvious she was very angry with me."

Again she stops and again, after a short wait, I prompt her to continue.

"When she speaks to me, her voice is deep and raspy. She tells me, 'Your turn is coming', then turns away from me as though I'm no longer important. I wake up as she begins to chant again."

She looks at me, waiting for my response. I don't know much about these things, but I don't like the threat or the chill that ran down my spine when I heard it. Just to clarify things, I ask, "She's speaking directly at you?"

Monica nods. "Yes. She's warning me that my turn to die will come."

I sit quietly, trying to figure out some sort of meaning to the dreams she's been having. I feel stupid, but hell, I'm ready to try almost anything at the moment. Besides, isn't it Freud who figured out that you could learn things about a person from their dreams? "Her killing that man by drowning him, was that supposed to cleanse him in some way?"

"No," she replies, shaking her head. "The way she committed the murder wasn't important. She was only interested in channelling his life force when death released it." She then adds reluctantly, "And I don't think it was her talking to me. It was someone else, speaking through her."

I sit silently a moment, trying to take this all in. A part of me - a BIG part of me - says that we're getting a little too close to the stuff grade B horror movies are made of. Another, less confident part of me asks her: "Who?"

She waits a moment, her eyes wide, dark and fathomless. Finally she speaks. Her tone is quiet and matter-of-fact. "Our serial killer - the guy we're looking for. This is his way of letting me know he knows we're closing in - and that he plans to kill me"

End New Orleans part 2


	3. Chapter 3

New Orleans Part 3 Author: Mariel  
  
Chapter 7  
  
He's planning to kill her. The words ricochet around inside my head. Jesus. It's bad enough we're after a serial killer, but to be chasing one who's out to get one of us... Jesus...  
  
"Why you?" I ask, trying to shut down an unusual sense of panic. "How the hell does he even know you? None of this makes sense."  
  
She looks uneasy, but doesn't respond to my outburst. Instead, she offers, "If I'm a target, I can be used to draw him out."  
  
Across my mind flashes the memory of a woman lying face down on a cemented floor, one bloodied hand outstretched.  
  
No.  
  
She's not gonna put herself at risk. I won't let her.  
  
Standing up, I start to pace the floor. "You can't be his next target. How can he possibly know you? And why choose you? God, you're FBI. How on Earth does he think he can try to kill you without gettin' caught? It's crazy. The dreams...." My voice trails off as I realise that for a moment at least, I'd fallen hook, line, and sinker into actually believing dreams had some bearing on the case. Mentally, I reach out and grasp reality, shaking my head as I do so. I must be losin' it.  
  
She smiles a little, though it doesn't completely erase the worry from her face. "I was wondering when you'd realise what you were contemplating." Her face turns serious again. "But whether you like it or not, John, this is real. The dreams are important. We've got to pay attention to them. I need time to mull things over, but now that I know we're both having them, I'm sure I'll be able to make some sense out of everything. We're on the right track with this."  
  
She might think she's on the right track, but I can feel myself wanting to get off it in a big hurry. A little sanity just about now would be real welcome. We'll get this guy, but to think we can solve a murder or prevent one from happening because of a few dreams... well, that's a little nuts. And I'm not using Monica as a sacrificial lamb to catch him, no way. That ain't in no game plan of mine and never will be, so she can just toss that little baby out with the bath water.  
  
As usual, she goddam knows somehow what I'm thinking because she says, "John, don't toss the idea aside. If he's focussed on me, we may be able to draw him out a bit, gain time to figure out who he is."  
  
I sit down again, trying to cover my disquiet.  
  
She sits, staring at her hands, giving both of us needed time and space to think. It's mumbo jumbo, it's psychic crapola, but there's still that crazy little voice inside me insisting there's something to what she says. Our both having dreams about the women we've found dead committing murder themselves is maybe too much of a coincidence not to look into.  
  
I glance over at her, my unease growing. Monica believes she's been threatened. Threatened in a dream that the killer is after her. Why her? What's she got to do with any of this?  
  
Meeting my gaze, she says, "We've got to take a look at the records for unsolved murders with the same MO's as the ones in our dreams."  
  
I look at her, not understanding.  
  
"We know the women we've found murdered weren't killed the way that we saw the women in our dreams commit theirs," she explains patiently. "Ergo, they're different murders. I mean, we're not seeing the women re-enacting their own murders. These are something completely different. We've got to find out if they really happened."  
  
"And if they have?"  
  
"And if they have, then we've got a motive for their murders - revenge, perhaps. Someone knows they've murdered and wants to see them pay."  
  
I shake my head. "They're too spread out. No one person could possibly be aware of several murders committed by several women in two different parts of the country. It's just too much of a coincidence."  
  
Monica shrugs. "All I know is that the murdered women aren't tied together in any other way that we've been able to discover. I think the reason we can't find the connection is that they spent a lot of energy seeing to it that no one could. Kelly was right - the link between them is that they've all kept something important hidden - namely, the murders they committed and the reason they committed them. I can't explain how one person knows about all the murders, but I'm sure we'll discover that at some point."  
  
I try not to grimace at the mention of 'Kelly' and 'was right' in the same sentence. Still concentrating on the idea of keeping Monica out of harm's way, I say, "We should get you outta New Orleans."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because he's here and you're here, and a threat's been made."  
  
She looks at me with surprise and something else I can't quite define. "I don't think leaving is the answer. Some things you can't run away from: they just follow you until they catch up. Besides, I thought you didn't take the dreams seriously, John."  
  
What can I say? I know that I'm not reacting to any of this in a very logical manner. I'm like a bloody yoyo, believing one minute, appalled at the insanity of it all the next. It's crazy for me to be worried about a warning my partner believes she received in a dream. I'm falling into this mumbo jumbo stuff way too easy. Maybe I should be the one leaving - to somewhere nice and quiet with soft, padded walls. Still, I look over at her and can't help but feel uneasy. I can't let anything happen to her, I can't.  
  
I rise and begin to pace again. I'm not sure how long we remain locked in our own thoughts before I hear her say, "Oh, God..."  
  
Stopping, I turn and look at her. She's suddenly gone pale, her eyes huge and filled with a fear I've never seen before. "What?"  
  
"What if they were all seeking more power for themselves?" she asks in a quiet voice.  
  
I can tell this isn't really a question - she's decided it's the answer. Another one of her leaps. I turn to look at her dead on. "What do you mean?"  
  
"John, if they had anything to do with the occult...it's all about power. Power asked for or power demanded. That's their connection. If they..." Her voice drifts off and furrows form between her eyebrows as she stops to think things through. She's tense, though whether from anticipation or worry, I don't know. Speaking rapidly, she finally continues: "It would explain the darkness I feel surrounding these murders - and the evil I sense surrounding the women and their possessions. I've been having trouble thinking of them as victims; now I know why. It all makes sense: they're victims, but they started out on the other end. They've committed terrible acts, too."  
  
"Who?"  
  
"The victims. They're murderers. They have to be."  
  
She's going too fast for me. "Why would they have to be?"  
  
"To obtain the power they were seeking. That explains everything..."  
  
She stands and starts to pace around the room. To get out of the way, I move between the two beds and sit down on one of them.  
  
Moving her hands expressively, she says, "John, the morning I spent in the evidence room told me one thing: these women all had evil ingrained into their possessions. I thought it must be residue left from the man who'd killed them, but it wasn't." She stops and looks at me. "They were evil themselves."  
  
That explains her strange behaviour in the evidence room. Of course she hadn't told me what she'd felt - I'd have told her she was nuts. I watch her, my mind working. This, as much as the dreams, was what she couldn't tell me. She was right not to - I wouldn't have listened.  
  
I'm almost ready to now, though.  
  
"You gotta explain this a little better, Monica. I'm a bit adrift here." I gesture and she moves into the alley between the two beds. She sits facing me on the bed opposite, slightly to my right, her knee almost touching mine. The part she's talking about where the women are evil I can investigate, but I still don't get where Monica fits in and why she thinks the murderer is out to get her.  
  
She leans forward and answers my question before I have to ask it. "That would explain why he's interested in me: he's gathering power. He murdered the other women because he knew they'd accumulated strength through ritual murder themselves. I'm on his hit list because of what I can do and the energy he could obtain from that. He's been keeping an eye on the investigation somehow, knows who's working on it and knows that I have the ability to sense things. He wants to benefit from that."  
  
I guess she can tell by looking at me I don't know what the hell she's talking about.  
  
"My ability to 'feel' things is a sort of power, John," she explains patiently. "There's psychic energy involved in it. He knows I have that ability, and knows he can gain that energy through my death."  
  
"How does he know that?"  
  
"I don't know. Perhaps he's been watching the investigation. Perhaps he-" She stops abruptly. I can tell the 'perhaps he-' thing was on its way to some sort of explanation of the occult that she doesn't think I'm ready for. Maybe she's right, I dunno. Weakly, she finishes, "There are many ways he could seek and obtain the information he wants."  
  
"Okay," I say, "so he knows through means unknown. He has to kill to gain the power he wants?"  
  
"Of course not. There are many ways of increasing whatever powers you've been born with. Most learn to do so through focussing, practice, and channelling natural energies. You can also do what I think the murderer is doing: you can kill and steal your victim's experience and energies by capturing its essence as they die. The rituals are very complicated and extremely dangerous, but it is possible."  
  
I'm still trying to catch up. Monica's never been too shy about talking about 'feelings' and things, but she's never talked about this sort of stuff before. At this point, though, I'm game for almost anything. "The more psychic energy a person has, the more you acquire when you kill them?"  
  
"If you know how to tap that energy before it returns into the universe, yes," she says. "If I'm right, he's been acquiring power at an incredible rate. Somehow, he discovered what those women were doing and decided murder was an easy way to accrue what they'd gained without the work. He must have strong natural abilities and a lot of knowledge, or he wouldn't be able to control it."  
  
I greet her words with silence. I'm out of my league. It all sounds too weird to me. A whole bunch of women, working independently, all witches, or whatever, and all committing murder to increase their powers? Like no one would notice this after a while? I shake my head. None of this sounds as though it could possibly have any basis in reality, and yet it doesn't feel wrong. It thinks wrong, yeah, but it somehow seems to click things into place. And like I said, gut instinct goes a long way in this business. Still, it's about as crazy as I can imagine anything getting.  
  
Monica looks at me, then reaches over and touches my knee. "You're not crazy for considering this, John. It's real. We just have to figure out how to fight it."  
  
I feel something akin to an electric shock course through me from her touch. Fighting the urge to place my hand over hers, I look her in the eyes. A premonition of danger trickles a cold finger down my spine. Things are going to get worse before they get better, and if this is all real, I don't know what the hell needs to be done to protect her or anyone else from this sort of shit.  
  
"I don't want you out of my sight until this guy's put away."  
  
She smiles and rises, her movement stirring the air. A chill skitters across my skin.  
  
Chapter 8  
  
It's been two days since our talk at the motel, and we've spent most of our time since then still sitting in our dingy little borrowed office in the New Orleans Police building, going over the computer files of unsolved cases we've decided match the murders in our dreams. I've taken a couple forays out into the real world, looking for real facts, but I'm always drawn back to Monica and her search. Two of the murders we've found took place in New York, but most of the others that fit our dream scenarios have taken place in the general area of New Orleans. I'm convinced now the man's a local, and yes, I'm pretty much convinced I have to let Monica run with this one. There's stuff I don't understand that makes perfectly good sense to her, and I sure haven't come up with any sensible explanation to anything.  
  
"Showing these to Kelly will probably help," Monica says, referring to the pile of pictures and information we've brought back to the hotel with us.  
  
I try to squelch the distaste I feel at Monica's faith in her friend.  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because she knows more than I do about some things. She's also knows what's going on these days in the occult scene here. She knows who goes where, who's with who, who's into what. Perhaps she'll recognise some of these women if I show her the photos."  
  
"What? She doesn't get the newspaper? All the victims have had their photos plastered all over the place."  
  
"Yes, but I want to show them to her all at one time - and I want her to see the photos of the unsolved murders we think the victims may have committed, too. She may be able to pick something out, remember something..."  
  
Her voice trails off. She can tell I'm not enthusiastic about the idea.  
  
When she speaks again though, her voice is determined. "John, I know you don't care for her, but she can help."  
  
"I thought you were the one with the 'abilities'."  
  
"I am, but she's..." She pauses a moment, then shrugs. "She's special. And I haven't been here the past year. She has. She knows what's happening on both sides of the fence."  
  
"What?"  
  
"She knows what's happening in the 'real' world and what's happening in the underground occult world, too."  
  
"You mean what's going on in places like the Talisman?" It's a leap I'm kinda proud of, but now that I know what I know about Kelly, I figure with a name like that it just might be a gathering place for strange people interested in weird things.  
  
She nods. "She might know something she doesn't realise she knows until we prod her memory."  
  
Finally, I nod. Yeah, we're desperate. If Kelly can help, why not?  
  
"I'm going with you." That's my fear speaking for me. I've been very careful not to let Monica out of my sight: that icy premonition of doom hasn't left me, and I'm payin' close attention to it.  
  
"You don't have to. I know you don't like her, so it'd be torture for you. It's only a few blocks away - I can get there myself, John."  
  
She's right, but that doesn't make any difference at all. "Yes, on all counts," I agree, "but I told you: I'm not letting you out of my sight."  
  
The phone rings. Without responding to my comment, Monica reaches over and picks up the receiver. She smiles when she recognises the voice on the other end.  
  
"I'm on my way. Just give me a few minutes to change, okay?" She hangs up and turns towards me.  
  
"That was Kelly. She wants to know if I can come over a little earlier. She has plans for later on."  
  
Suspicion raises it ugly head. There's something about the thought of Monica going over to see her friend I don't like. I search my mind trying to figure out why, but only come up with the usual suspicions about Kelly herself. What do I really know about her, anyway? If she's into all that occult stuff shit, how do I know she doesn't have something to do with the murders herself? She's awful interested in our investigation, and there's nothin' to say that these murders had to have been committed by a man. We've been using the term 'he', but that doesn't mean anything. And Kelly has known for a long time that Monica 'feels' things. Maybe she's been targeting Monica all along...  
  
"John?"  
  
I jump. "Yeah?"  
  
"What's wrong?"  
  
Like I'm gonna tell her. She'd have my head and call me crazy. No, this is something I've gotta run with by myself for a while.  
  
"I'm going to Kelly's with you." When she starts to object, I'm quick to say, "You have a point about her maybe knowing things we don't. I wouldn't mind hearing about what's going on in the New Orleans scene, and I guess it wouldn't hurt for me to learn something about the witch and hocus pocus stuff - if she's willing to talk about it."  
  
Monica looks at me with well drawn scepticism. There's no way she can object to my going now, but she's sure got doubts about the sincerity of my reasons.  
  
"And your attitude has taken a complete about face because...?"  
  
"Must be something in the air," I say. "Let's get ready to go."  
  
She stands up, deciding it's not worth the battle to get me to talk. "I want to change," she says, "and I need my purse. I'll be back in a couple minutes."  
  
The thought crosses my mind to go with her, but she's in the connecting room and I don't want to look like a complete idiot about this. She goes through the door and closes it. I suffer through an impulse to get up and open the door, but hell, she's entitled to a little privacy if she's changing. I sit down with a couple files to wait.  
  
I can't shake the feeling of impending doom, though. After about five minutes, I knock on her door.  
  
There's no answer.  
  
I don't tap again. Quickly turning the handle, I go in.  
  
No Monica in sight.  
  
Christ.  
  
A million thoughts flash through my mind... Kelly calling from the lobby... Kelly showing up at the door and saying 'let's drop the dude' and Monica laughingly taking off towards her doom without me... Kelly showing up, maybe with an accomplice, and overpowering her somehow, forcing her to leave quietly...  
  
I stride across the floor to the door leading to the hallway. Pulling it open, I look both ways down the corridor. Nothing. I listen, catching my breath. Sure that I hear something to the left, I flip the cover off my holster and race down the hall.  
  
End New Orleans Part 3 


	4. Chpater 4

Chapter 9  
  
/Run, Daddy! Run!/  
  
The thick hallway carpet muting the sound of my pounding feet, I race towards the last corner before the elevators and stairwell. Skidding around it, I hit a soft body coming in my direction.  
  
It's Monica.  
  
I don't knock her over, but it's a close call. She looks at me as I steady the both of us. When she opens her mouth to say something, I yell at her. "For Christsakes, what are you doing out here? I told you - I don't want you out of my sight!"  
  
I'm still holding her by the shoulders, and she's still recovering from our collision. I let go of her abruptly, resisting the urge to shake her. "Geez, Monica. You could've gotten yourself killed."  
  
"I went to get us a couple cokes," she says, holding them up for me to see. "Kelly never keeps it around, and in this heat, I knew I'd want one."  
  
"Well, thanks for letting me know first."  
  
An angry look crosses her face. She opens her mouth to respond, but stops when a young man turns the corner and walks towards us. He nods, and we nod back. By the look on his face, I know he's heard our angry tones if not the actual words and thinks he's interrupting a marital spat. Once he's on the elevator and the doors start to close, Monica hisses in a low, angry voice, "I'm perfectly capable of getting myself to the vending machine and back without an escort, John."  
  
"Not necessarily. We don't know what we're dealing with here." My heart's still pounding.  
  
She stands there staring at me and I brace myself for another outburst. She surprises me when she lets out a little gust of breath and raises her hands in surrender. "You're right. Okay. I'll tell you the next time I decide to go AWOL. I just didn't think. I'm sorry."  
  
Her sudden capitulation proves how worried she must be. She hasn't said much the last couple of days, but she's looking tired and I know the dreams haven't let up for her any more than they have for me. I regret my angry words. I could have let her know how I felt without yelling at her. My eyes lock with hers and I send her a wordless apology. Mentally bracing myself for an uncomfortable evening with Kelly, I gesture in the direction of our rooms. "Let's go back and get your stuff. We don't want to keep our hostess waiting."  
  
The building Kelly lives in is pretty much what I expected. It's a huge old building probably built in the early to mid-nineteenth century, gracefully aged, with a sense of presence. We enter large wooden doors that open onto a foyer made cool by old stone. Kelly's on the top floor, and since there's no elevator, we walk up a number of wide flights of stairs to her place. I can imagine Monica living here. It's old, has tons of character, and has an air about it I imagine she'd like. As we climb the stairs, she motions in the direction her apartment used to be and smiles. Yeah, she liked living here just fine. I wonder what she was like back then.  
  
Kelly must have been waiting, because she opens the door only seconds after Monica knocks. I walk into the apartment and have my expectations of the interior immediately blown away. I'd expected dark colours and crystal balls and...well, witchy stuff. Instead, the walls of the large living area she ushers us into are painted a colour that makes the room seem light and welcoming, even though the sky is beginning to darken outside. The large, floor to ceiling windows have their white shutters open and the gauzy white curtains that hang on each side of them stir occasionally in the early evening breeze. I sit in the large and very comfortable gray chair she indicates with a wave of her hand and look around. There's a scent in the air I can't identify that makes me feel relaxed and at home. Bookcases jam packed with books, the titles of which are too far away for me to read, line one wall. Flowers sit in vases here and there. I spot a crystal ball on a small table and try not to smile. At least I wasn't completely wrong. The two women settle on the sofa and start to talk. I don't offer to participate. I want to observe Kelly.  
  
Which, as it happens, is probably just as well, since once the photographs are spread out on the coffee table, they seem to forget my presence. I listen with interest as they go over details. Kelly asks good questions, makes good observations, and is a little less pie-in-the-sky than I'd expected. That doesn't reassure me, though. If anything, it makes me a little more worried. She's smart: smarter than she looks or acts. She could be dangerous.  
  
Monica asks her some questions that lead to talk about thoughtforms and lower entities and dark magics and stuff I don't quite follow. Supposition follows supposition as they try to determine just what or who this guy is and what he's up to.  
  
Still listening, I get up and walk over to the bookcase. Skimming the titles, I finally pick up, "Deamons and Magicks Gathering". The title makes no sense to me, but I take it back to my chair and open it up, flipping through it for pictures. There aren't many, so I skim through some of the chapters.  
  
I fall into what I'm reading like a rock into a pond. Realisation of what the women think we're facing forces itself on me. Evil and good, spells and potions and incantations...This is a whole new world. My imagination runs wild.  
  
Then Monica's phone rings.  
  
Monica takes it out of her purse and answers. She listens for a while and with a quick glance at me, says. "I'd love to, Peter. Thanks for thinking of me. I should be finished here in about an hour. I'll need about 30 minutes to change at the hotel, so I'll meet you downstairs there in about an hour and a half."  
  
I frown, not liking that my name hasn't been mentioned. I don't want her out of my sight, and that includes if she goes out with her buddy Peter.  
  
I don't give her the chance to say anything after she hangs up. "I didn't hear you mention that you wouldn't be coming alone," I tell her.  
  
She doesn't say anything for a minute or so, then: "I'll be safe. He's police, after all, and we're not going far. He wants to show me one of the murder sites we've identified."  
  
So she's told him about our dreams and the unsolved murders. I wonder how much more she's told him. And when she had the chance.  
  
"He's taking you there before or after dinner?"  
  
"After, I should think. We won't want to eat too late."  
  
At least she's not pretending this isn't a date. "We agreed you wouldn't be out and about alone."  
  
Kelly pipes up and agrees with me. I don't know that it makes me all that happy to be on the same side as her, but at this point, I'll take whatever support I can get. It does nothing to lessen my suspicions about her, though. My spidey senses are tingling all over the place. There's danger, I just don't know from where, and it's making me paranoid.  
  
"He's right, Monica," Kelly says. "We don't know who's after you or what he plans. We do know he's dangerous, and we know he has a way of abducting and murdering and not getting caught. You don't need to find out how he manages it by being on the receiving end of it."  
  
Monica frowns at her friend. "I thought the point was for me not to be alone. I won't be. "  
  
Kelly can't argue with that, but I can tell she's still uneasy. She darts a blue-eyed look at me as though I should be saying something. I don't know what more I can say: Monica's got a point - whoever's conducting these murders won't be too likely to try anything when she's with someone. I look at Kelly, my suspicions about her still clanging around inside my head. Is she afraid that Monica and Peter might come up with something that would lead to her?  
  
Reluctantly, I nod. "Okay, fine. Go. Just be careful, and don't let him leave you alone anywhere, not even for a minute."  
  
I can tell Monica's first instinct is to argue, but she doesn't. I wonder what form her dreams have been taking and if she's had more warnings, regretting that we seem to have avoided the topic lately. I frown, wondering why. I could have told her about the ones I've had, but...I try to grasp the reason for not talking about them with her, but can't remember it. It's like there's a roadblock in my head. I do know that at the time it made sense not to bring up the subject.  
  
"We've still got a few minutes to talk," I say. "I've got a few questions about what abilities a person gains when they kill someone and perform whatever rituals you ladies think this guy's performing. And why he'd want them."  
  
The two women look at me, surprised. I ask my lead question and Kelly begins to talk. I'm not sure how much time passes before Monica looks at her watch and groans, "I'm late already. I've got to go get changed."  
  
I stand up and start to gather our papers.  
  
"Leave those for Kelly, John. She'll need to go through them."  
  
I don't like the idea of leaving things lying around that belong to the FBI.  
  
Kelly looks at me, her eyes showing the first glimmer of real humour she's ever directed at me. "Don't worry, I won't sell them to the CIA or KGB. You can pick them up first thing in the morning, if you like. Just give me a little while with them."  
  
On the way back to the hotel, I ask Monica what Kelly needs them for. She hesitates, then says, "She wants time to ask-"  
  
She stops, and I know she doesn't want to continue, so I prod her. "Ask who what?"  
  
With her usual 'you're-going-to-hate-this' look, Monica tells me, "Kelly sometimes uses the energies around her to ask for help." When I don't say anything she explains, "Elementals, John. I've explained them to you before. She works with water and air. The spirits who embody those things may be able to help her. Help us."  
  
Tell me a story, Daddy...  
  
"Yeah, I remember," I tell her. "They're like spirit guides or somethin', right? It still sounds kinda far out, even for you guys." It's hard to believe that in this day and age there are still people into that sort of crap.  
  
"Not exactly spirit guides, but whether you like it or not, they exist, and there are people who use their help."  
  
I grunt. "Maybe I should have stuck around and taken lessons, eh?"  
  
Monica laughs abruptly. "You might have learned more than you'd bargained for tonight, John. Rituals that bring the elementals to you are usually held in the nude. For something as important as this, I'm sure that's what she'll do. She'll need to be as close as she can to them."  
  
Okay, that's more than I needed to know. I wait the entire walk down to the main floor before asking her, "What time do you expect to get back tonight?"  
  
Monica smiles, recognising the change of subject, but not ready to let go of it just yet. "John," she says to me, "you can trust her instincts. She's very rarely wrong." Then she relents and answers my question: "I'm not sure when we'll be back. Don't wait up for me; Peter and I have a lot of catching up to do."  
  
"You two were an item when you lived here, or what?"  
  
I regret the question as soon as I ask it. Damn. We don't talk about personal stuff like that. It's not professional. It's none of my business.  
  
But I'm dying to know.  
  
"No," she replies, not looking as though she thinks my question is out of order. "We were close friends, though. Everything about the move here was difficult for me. I was a bit of a mess, and he sort of took me under his wing: he kept me busy to keep my mind off things - showed me around, introduced me to people."  
  
"Like Kelly?"  
  
Monica chuckles. "No. I met Kelly by accident when I was shopping for clothes. Kelly and Peter don't get along."  
  
No kidding. "He doesn't like her wierdness either, eh?"  
  
A shake of her head tells me I'm guessing wrong.  
  
"Peter knows a lot about the occult. That's how we first met - he was the New Orleans police detective on the first case I was called on to investigate. He'd heard about the satanic and cult crimes unit, called the FBI, and asked for me. He and Kelly, though," she said, still smiling, "they're like oil and water. I don't pretend to understand, and I gave up trying to put them in the same room a long time ago."  
  
I don't care too much for either of them. I wonder where that puts me. Then I think back to when she'd left New York. I'd been surprised at how abruptly the transfer had come up, but she'd seemed okay about the move. I guess I'd figured she'd like working in a place famed for its weird stuff. Instead, it had been a time she'd needed someone and I'd been so into my own circumstances I hadn't even noticed.  
  
Pretty poor showing for someone who would have claimed to be her friend.  
  
I push that thought aside, but I know it's gonna come back and haunt me.  
  
By now, we're riding the elevator up to our floor of the hotel. Trying a lighter tone, I ask, "So, do you have a favourite place to eat dinner here?"  
  
Monica smiles. "We used to have a few. I'll let Peter pick. He'll know who's the chef where and what he's cooking at the moment."  
  
So Peter's one of those fine wine and dine guys. I look at Monica. It never struck me that she might be into that sort of thing. I remember bringing her Washington's finest sausage - the kind you eat without a plate - and wince.  
  
At my door, I turn to her. "Let me know when you're going," I say, wondering how she dresses for a date with this guy.  
  
Monica nods and enters her room.  
  
It isn't long before my wonderin's over. I can't believe she packed something like it, but it sure as hell wouldn't have taken up much space, and I suppose she musta known that Peter and she would be going out at some point.  
  
The dress is a short-hemmed strapless thing in a colour I'm not even sure there's a name for. I suppose some people might call it a simple dress 'cause there isn't anything on it to take away from the person wearing it. Which is just as well, 'cause Monica looks fabulous. She's put her hair up somehow and she's tall and slender and elegant and I hardly recognise her as the woman who's my partner by day.  
  
"Wow. Must be some place you're going to."  
  
Monica smiles self-consciously. "I hope so. It's fun to dress up every now and again." She touches her earrings and then her hair. "It feels strange. It's been a while."  
  
Yeah. Probably not since she left New Orleans. Peter's a lucky guy. I can remember dressing up for different things with Barbara. It's fun, with the right person.  
  
"Well, it suits you," I say, wishing I could think of something more original. And yeah, I'm kinda wishing it was me she was going out with. The thought surprises me, and I squelch it quick, before it has the chance to take root. Friends don't date. They don't think thoughts like I'm having right now.  
  
"He's picking you up when?"  
  
She glances at the slender, gold-banded watch she's wearing. "Just about now. I'd better be going."  
  
Once again, that awful wave of foreboding sweeps over me. "Be careful, Monica."  
  
Her eyes raise to meet mine, surprise and curiosity making a strange cocktail in them. "Of course. Do you want me to let you know when I'm back, even if it's late?"  
  
I nod. "Yeah."  
  
She hesitates, her hand on the door lever. "You're really worried aren't you?"  
  
I nod again, not wanting to say anything. I'm being a little nuts about all this, but I can't stop the fear building inside me that something's about to happen I can't do anything about it because I won't be there when it happens if she goes without me.  
  
The thought sends ice down my spine. Why I think something's going to happen while she's out with Peter, I can't say, but suddenly it's all over me, the fear she's walking into danger-  
  
"Call me when you get there, that's all. I'd like to have a rough idea where you are and when. I'm sorry Monica, I don't mean to be your babysitter or anything, but-"  
  
She smiles, her eyes warm. "That's okay, John. I'll phone from the restaurant." A heartbeat, and she adds, "I'll phone from the ladies' washroom, though. I wouldn't want Peter to get the wrong idea."  
  
I don't have much to say to that. Hell, maybe Peter wouldn't be too far from wrong.  
  
/It's okay, Daddy./  
  
Two hours later, she calls and says that she's at some restaurant called Trinity's. She tells me the street it's on, that the food's good, and laughs when I tell her to bring home a doggy bag. I can imagine her eyes flashing with humour and feel a pang of regret that I'm not there in person.  
  
"Don't be afraid to call again, later," I tell her. "And let me know when you think you'll be back."  
  
We say a couple more things, she promises to call when she's on the way back, and we hang up.  
  
When I put the receiver down, the alarm bells are still ringin'.  
  
Out of the blue, I realise that maybe they're goin' off because I not having partnerish thoughts about my partner. I'm not crazy about the idea of Monica out on a date. I feel left behind. Knowing better than to dwell on such things, I pick up a file and open it.  
  
It's past midnight, and she's still not back. I've tried television, the in- room video games, and reading, and I can't concentrate on anything but that she should be back by now. She hasn't called, and I'm more uncomfortable with that than I would ever admit to. When the phone rings, I almost jump on it.  
  
"Doggett, here"  
  
The voice isn't the one I'm hoping to hear. It takes me a while to place the soft, southern tone.  
  
"John? I'm worried about Monica. Have you heard from her? Do you know where she was going after dinner? I have a feeling she's in trouble somewhere."  
  
It's Kelly. Her words are stumbling over themselves, and there's no mistaking the urgency in her voice.  
  
"Kelly?"  
  
"Yes," she says impatiently, as though I should have anticipated her call. "Do you know where she's supposed to be? Listen, she's in trouble."  
  
Her words are quickly spoken, and in response to them, my fear leaps up to crash with hers. "We talked around 10:00," I tell her. "She was at Trinity's for dinner and said as soon as they finished there, they were going to one of the murder sites. She mentioned doing something like that before she left your place, didn't she?"  
  
"I was hoping maybe she'd changed her plans. We've got to go find her, John. She's not answering her cell, and I've had bad feelings about tonight all day. There's something wrong."  
  
I agree. I'd thought that most of my problem was with who she was going out with, though. Carrying things still further, I don't know him from Adam, and how do I know that he's not involved somehow in these murders? How do I know he's not-  
  
I stop myself abruptly. I'm thinking the same thoughts I was thinking about Kelly. I'm suspicious of everyone. Still, Monica's not home, we don't know where she is - but we do know who she's with.  
  
We think.  
  
Maybe Kelly knows how to get reach him. "How well do you know this Peter guy?" I ask.  
  
"Just enough to know I don't like him. He's been good to Monica, though. They've known each other almost since the day she landed in New Orleans, years ago."  
  
"I don't suppose you have his phone number lying around."  
  
"No."  
  
Of course not. That would make things too easy. I realise we could contact the New Orleans Police Department and maybe get it from them, but it'd take time, and time may not be on our side.  
  
Kelly's voice intrudes on my thoughts. "I'm coming over to get you. We've got to go out and find her."  
  
With Monica's voice in my head saying, 'You can trust her instincts', and my gut insisting I follow it, I make a quick decision. Ain't no way I'm going to question this. It's time to go with the flow. At the very least, it allows me to do something other than sit around and wait.  
  
"No," I tell her, "I'll come get you. Bring all the stuff we left at your place. We'll need it to figure out where they might have gone after Trinity's."  
  
Grabbing my coat and keys, I'm out the door before I have a chance to think about what I'm doing.  
  
The run to the elevator gives me some time for that. I'm off looking for someone I'm not even sure wants to be looked for. What if she's at Peter's? What if there's more to the relationship than she let on? And what if there being more to their relationship is what's really got me running out in the middle of the night with rescue on my mind? At this point, though, I don't care. I'm listening to my instinct, and instinct is tellin' me to get a move on. Reaching the elevator doors, I punch the call button, then head for the stairs because I refuse to wait.  
  
I'm at Kelly's in no time. She's just comin' out of the doors of her building when I pull to a stop. She gets in quickly and slams the door shut.  
  
Having had a bit of time to think, I make a last ditch effort to give rationality a chance. Skipping the greetings thing, I suggest, "Maybe we ought to slow down a bit. They've known each other a long time. Maybe-"  
  
She glares at me. "John, she's in trouble. Don't tell me you don't sense that. I haven't felt right about anything in regards to her for a while now, and you've been feeling it too. She's in danger, we're both worried as hell, and deep down, you know we should be. She'd have called you by now if everything was okay, right?"  
  
Yeah, she's right. While she puts her seat belt on, I pull out into traffic. I've got no idea where we're going, but I need to be moving. "Should we try to contact Peter?"  
  
Kelly shakes her head. "He's part of the problem."  
  
I turn my head quickly, another cascade of fear shivering down my spine. God, I hope she's wrong.  
  
"There's gonna be hell to pay if we're mistaken and she and Peter are-" I can't finish the sentence, so I clear my throat and try again, "She'll be real mad if she finds out we were scouring the streets of the city looking for her and she's safe and sound somewhere."  
  
Kelly's impatience is palpable. "She's not and sound anywhere. Turn left up here. We've got to take the out to . I'm sure that's where-"  
  
She stops. After I turn onto the street she's told me to, I look at her. "What are you talking about? How do you know where to go?" The momentary thought that perhaps she's kidnapping ME crosses my mind. Is she preying on my fear to get me away? I wonder if she's armed.  
  
"Will you stop the 'am-I-in-danger-from-a-madwoman' thing and pay attention?" she asks. "Monica's in danger, and it's not from anything we're going to have a lot of power against. Peter's connected. You've been feeling that something's wrong, too. If you spent more time learning to understand what your senses are telling you, you'd be a lot better off."  
  
She stops the lecture, then resumes in a quieter voice, "Look, I'm sorry for scolding. I just hate seeing gifts go to waste because the person given them is too blind, stupid, or bigoted to use them. We've got to get to Monica quickly, so let's call it a truce, okay? I'm not trying to kill you; Monica's my friend, and I'm one of the good guys here. Now shut up and drive where I tell you. I've got to concentrate on Monica."  
  
I shut up and drive where she tells me.  
  
"And you don't like him because...?" Making turns as Kelly directs me, I decide it's time to talk some.  
  
She hesitates. It's nothing new to me - she's done a lot of that since we were introduced. Monica's told her about my feelings about the occult, and she doesn't like to parade it out. "Kelly, just let me have it," I prompt.  
  
"I don't know that it's ever been so much not like as it is I've never trusted him. You know that Monica senses things. I do too, though not exactly the same way. When I met Peter, I saw him for a while before we were introduced. He didn't know me, didn't know he was being observed. I got the impression before we were introduced that there was much power congregated around him. When Monica brought him over to introduce him to me, though, none of it was there. It was as though I'd imagined it, but I knew I hadn't. I always wondered if maybe..."  
  
I jump in. " -If maybe he had occult powers that he was keeping hidden? Can you do that? I mean, hide powers so that people who are sensitive and ought to be able to sense it, can't?" Things are starting to add up, and I don't like it.  
  
"You'd have to be very skilled, but it would be possible," Kelly admits. "But I have to say that he seems okay. I always wondered if he maybe felt more for Monica than she realised."  
  
"But you never sensed anything amiss again?"  
  
"We didn't meet much after that. It seemed that any time there was an opportunity for us all to be in the same place at the same time, something would come up for one of us, and it wouldn't happen. To be honest, I was never eager to be around him. I can't think of any particular reason: just a general aversion. At the time I didn't think an awful lot about it. I don't think I saw him more than 3 times the entire time Monica lived here, though Monica must have seen him a number of times every week."  
  
We lapse into silence, me wondering how close their relationship got in those number of times a week. A small desperate part of me hopes for Monica's sake that they're safely tucked away somewhere renewing their acquaintance. Anything's better'n the other stuff I'm thinking might be happening to her, 'cause it involves Peter being the person behind all the murders that we've been investigating. He's got the perfect cover, the perfect opportunity, and if he's got the kind of 'power' that Kelly seems to think he has...it all makes way too much sense.  
  
Monica is in big trouble.  
  
It's 2am, and we've driven for miles. Turning a sharp corner, I see the red reflector tail lights of a parked car off to the left. I'm lucky I saw them, since the car's parked off the road on a small turnoff, well to the side and half shrouded in bushes.  
  
Overshooting the turnoff, I hit the brakes. "Here. This is it," I don't know how I know this is the car and this is the place, but at this point I don't care.  
  
Kelly, who's been sitting quietly in the seat beside me, leans over, holding her stomach. She's said little the last bit, though a few times I've looked over 'cause she keeps muttering something to herself. I've looked into the rear view mirror a few times, too. I've had the feeling there's someone else with us, right here in the car, but of course there isn't. It'd weird me out if I weren't so worried.  
  
"You okay?"  
  
Kelly nods, but doesn't speak.  
  
I reverse and pull into the turnoff. Parking my rental behind a dark sedan I recognise as Peter's. My heart takes a final plunge. No more false hopes. It's Peter. Monica's his next intended victim, and I can only hope we're here in time. I move to open the door.  
  
"Wait." Kelly's voice and her restraining hand hold me in place. "We can't go unaided," she explains, rummaging through a deep pocket in her coat. Finally finding what she wants, she murmers a few words. She then opens the small cloth sachet, pinches some of the powder in it between two fingers, turns, and blows it at me.  
  
I sneeze.  
  
"What the hell?"  
  
"I'm not finished. Shut up. You don't have any idea what we're going into. It's not going to be anything like you expect. We've got to do what we can to protect ourselves." She's talking fast, and her hands are trembling.  
  
I have my gun. Touching it to reassure myself, I move to open the door again. Kelly grabs my arm. "Will you stop?! You're going to get yourself killed. You still think this is a game? You think Monica and I and anyone else who deals with the occult are just indulging in make believe? Jeezus, John. Smarten up. You've got to have seen enough-"  
  
She's messing with something else she took out of her pocket while she was cussing me. I sit, waiting, my heart pounding and every ounce of me wanting to get out of this damned car. The voice in my head is screaming at me to find Monica, to get away from Kelly as quick as I can.  
  
She passes me a small cloth packet. "Put this in your pocket. It's not much, but it's all I could put together before we left. It'll offer you some protection, maybe buy you some time. If Peter speaks to you, don't answer his questions; answers will bind you to him, no matter what your response is. Concentrate on Monica and what you know her to be, not what you see, not what he tells you. I figure he'll be concentrating on you once he knows we're here - if he doesn't already. I'll do what I can to help, but I don't know what that will be until we see what's happening."  
  
She looks at me, her eyes glittering in the dark. "You first, I'll follow. They're just over the little hill you'll find once you get through the trees over there." She points ahead through the windshield, a little to the right.  
  
She keels over again, clutching her stomach. "Go!" she gasps.  
  
Finally, I throw my door open and jump out the vehicle. The night air is hot and oppressive, and I swear there are things alive in it, brushing up against me, trailing fingers over my skin. I hear Kelly behind me, muttering something. Ignoring her, I head in the direction she pointed, the air clearing a bit as I go.  
  
Once we're in the trees, the going gets harder. My legs don't seem to be working right for some reason, and at times I lose my train of thought or pick up thoughts I don't know why I'm thinking. I imagine Monica with Peter, in his apartment. Smiling, talking. Naked. Something's walking beside me, whispering in my ear, and I see Kelly, her face dark, chanting over a candle; I see people in robes, like pictures from some movie.  
  
I stop, wondering why I'm here.  
  
/Daddy! Hurry! Where are you?/  
  
"John," a whisper from behind. "Move! You've got to concentrate. He's sending you thoughts. Don't pay attention. Focus on where we're going-" She stops abruptly and bends over at the waist. "Let's go," she gasps. "Hurry, he's hurting her."  
  
He's hurting her. I forge ahead, leaving Kelly to trail in my wake as best she can. I can hear her muttering to herself again, but don't stop to figure out what it is she's sayin'. I'm focussed on what's ahead.  
  
There's an energy in the air now that's almost painful. Like electricity, it bites at my skin, crawling along it like worms, irritating, impossible to shake off. Kelly is still behind me, still muttering. I realise now she's chanting something. Whatever it is, a part of me recognises it as beneficial. I halt briefly before cresting the hill that lies behind the copse of trees. Kelly catches up. She's still got her arms folded against her stomach, and she doesn't look too good.  
  
"You okay?"  
  
"He's very powerful. God, John. I don't know if we can do this." Her eyes are streaming tears, and I reach out a hand to steady her. She frowns, her eyes fixed on a distant point. "He's torn: a part of him doesn't want to do this, another part of him insists upon it. He's going to kill her. He needs her somehow. He-"  
  
She stops, gasping as she clutches her stomach. Behind me, I hear a muffled groan.  
  
It's Monica. I turn and head in her direction.  
  
End Part IV 


	5. Chapter 5

This is the end. Thanks to those who were kind enough to take the time to say something about the story. It's nice to know someone, somewhere, is reading!  
  
Chapter 10  
  
I near the edge of a clearing. A glow reaches out from it, clawing its way through the darkness towards me. A sense of danger crawls down the back of my neck and I slow my movements. Kelly is behind me, her constant, low chanting a dull hum against the night's quiet. I wonder if she'll be heard, but don't turn around.  
  
/Where're we going, Daddy?/  
  
A few steps further and I stop.  
  
Not understanding at first, I try to take a step forward.  
  
I can't.  
  
Things unseen press against me, holding me in place, keeping my arms at my sides, my head locked and facing forward, my feet planted firmly on the ground. I can breathe, I can hear, I can move my eyes, but I ain't going anywhere. Kelly's still moving up behind me- I try to grunt a warning, not understanding what it is that's got me, but sure it ain't good and that it's got something to do with what's happening in the clearing to Monica.  
  
I hear Kelly slow, her chanting taking on a different timbre. Her words encircle my head, vibrating in the air. Something inside me relaxes, and they flow through me, resonating inside my chest like a second heartbeat. Slowly, the pressures holding me in place melt away and I'm free to move.  
  
Shaken, I turn towards Kelly. "What-?"  
  
"He knows we're here now; he'll sense we've broken his holding spell." She looks towards where the trees end, her eyes briefly showing fear. "He's alone, but he's very strong. I've never felt so much evil-" She shakes her head and closes her eyes.  
  
My disquiet grows. I know I should get to Monica, but I'm outta my league here and know it. Desperately, I wish Monica was standing in Kelly's place. Nothing here feels right - Monica would know exactly what to tell me, exactly what I needed to have explained.  
  
"What do we do when we get into the clearing?" I ask, hoping she knows.  
  
Lifting her head as though to sense what the air carries past her, Kelly pauses, then nods. "Get to Monica. If you can move her, get her away from him. If you can't, just do what you can to protect her from him. I'll try to-" She stops abruptly, then says, "He's-" She gasps again, and bends over. When she straightens, she draws the back of her hand across her mouth. A dark streak - blood? - smudges across her cheek.  
  
"You all right?"  
  
She nods, but looks as though she's having trouble speaking. "Get to her, and..." Fumbling in her pockets again, she draws out a bag and a large medallion with letters and symbols of some kind drawn on it. With trembling hands, she holds them out to me. I look down at them, then back up at her. God, she's arming me with amulets and potions. Checking for the reassuring hardness of my gun again, I accept what she offers without comment.  
  
"Lay these on her chest," she explains, "with the bag beneath the medallion. They'll help protect her. I don't know how far along he's gotten."  
  
How far he's gotten. I realise then that the one thing we're not saying is that he may already have gone too far. Resolutely, the thought is shoved away. Shooting a quick look toward where the trees end and the clearing begins, I try to get a fix on what to expect. "You mean how far along he's got with the ritual?"  
  
She nods. "If he's after her abilities and powers, there's a very specific rite to go through before he kills her."  
  
Before he- Oh, no. Not on my watch he doesn't.  
  
"So I just get to her, put this on her?"  
  
Kelly nods. "I'll do what I can to distract him. He's going to try very hard to stop you and he'll summon help to do so. Ignore anything you hear or see. Just keep focussed on Monica."  
  
"Summon help?"  
  
"He'll call up help if he thinks you're a real threat."  
  
/Can I help, Daddy?/  
  
Call up...? My mind isn't ready to go there. A sense of urgency washes over me again. Only seconds have passed since I was halted and Kelly freed me, but our hastily whispered words feel as though they've taken ages to speak. I turn towards the clearing. Ain't no way in hell I'm ready for any of this, but I signal I'm going, and begin to move.  
  
The top of a small incline marks where trees give way to meadow, and it provides a good view of our destination. I can see Monica lying spread eagle on the grass. There are five torches stuck in the ground: one at her head, and at each of her outstretched hands and feet. Their flames waver in the night air, creating shadows that dance and take on a life of their own. Outside the pentagram formed by her body and the torches, she's surrounded by a perfect circle, marked out by dozens of smaller votive candles.  
  
Peter is standing over her, his voice murmuring something. He stops and turns when he senses my arrival. When he raises his hands towards me, Kelly hisses, "Look at Monica! Ignore him!"  
  
I do as she says. Kelly begins a chant, the sound of it filling my brain and seeming to flow through me and out towards Monica. Peter is still there, but my focus is only on my partner. I hear him speak, but his words fly past me without meaning. He gestures, but again, the gestures and their meaning do not register with me. Holding tight to the medallion and the potion bag, I run towards Monica.  
  
Just before I reach the nearest torch, my breath is forced out of my lungs as I hit a dark, thick wall of air that slows me, forcing me to struggle against pressures I can't see. I falter as I see Monica rise and wave we away. Smiling, she turns to Peter and reaches out a long fingered hand to him. I swear I can see love in her eyes as she steps nearer and looks up at him; she looks like a bride, reaching out to her groom. He, in turn, looks back at her, a gleam of possession on his face, fire in his eyes.  
  
My mind screams 'No!', refusing to believe what I'm seeing. Struggling forward, I close my eyes for a moment, refocussing on my destination. When I open them again, Monica is back on the ground. There is blood on her outstretched hands. Once more, her eyes are closed.  
  
A cachophony of sound erupts around me. Voices, thunder, laughter, screeching, the chittering sound made by frightened rodents... and I can still hear Kelly's chanting, its steady rhythm a reassuring counterpoint to the sense of horror growing inside me.  
  
/No! I don't like it here! No, Daddy!/  
  
Time does something weird. I don't know any more how long I've been moving forward, can't measure the distance I've come or the distance I have left to go. Hell, it's hard for me to tell if I'm moving or standing in place.  
  
As I concentrate everything I've got on getting to her, Moncia transforms into a burned husk of humanity: flesh blackened, features scorched away. Her head moves, turning towards me. There's a red glow where her eyes should be. Her bared teeth grin. I look away, but still urge my feet forward. Barely inside the circle of small candles, something hits me in the back of the knees and I fall. I roll automatically, preparing to fight. Peter towers above me, his face a mask of pure hate, a knife clenched in one hand.  
  
Relief floods through me. This is familiar ground - fighting with fists I know; knives can be defended against.  
  
I don't know how long it takes to get the knife away from him, don't know how long it is before Kelly's pounding on my back to stop because I'll kill him if I don't and I have to take care of Monica.  
  
A red haze slowly dissipates and I turn to her. Kelly's face is pale, her eyes huge in the flickering candlelight. Her lips move, but what she's saying I can't decipher. Quickly, her hands gesture in a way I don't quite catch, and then sound resumes and she's speaking plain English. "John, stop! He's unconscious. It's over. You can let go of him. He can't hurt anyone now."  
  
I turn back to the limp body I'm kneeling over and slowly relax my fist. Backing off him, I draw a bloodied hand across my face and wince as I touch an open wound. "Monica - is she all right?"  
  
Kelly gestures towards where her friend lies on the ground.  
  
I'm not sure how I get to her side, but I'm there, kneeling beside her. Her hands are bloody, and I can see the ends of the spikes that have been driven into them, pinning her to the ground. With relief I see that she's not bleeding at her feet or from any wound to her abdomen: he hadn't got far with the ritual. She doesn't move when I say her name, though. Urgently, I put my fingers on her neck to look for a pulse. It's there: slow, but steady.  
  
"What's wrong? Why doesn't she wake up?" I ask Kelly.  
  
"She's drugged. With several different kinds, most likely."  
  
I turn my head to look up at her and she explains,"The early part of the ceremony needs the victim to be conscious but unable to respond. Later, it's not so important that they be aware of what's happening." She looks down at Monica, her worry showing. "She likely passed out from the pain."  
  
I look at Monica's hands and the spikes still driven through them and grimace. My hands itch to free her from them, but I know that pulling them out could cause more damage and further bleeding. What Monica needs is professional medical help, not me making things worse. "Call 911," I tell Kelly.  
  
"Already done."  
  
I have no recollection of her having time to do that.  
  
Kelly interrupts my thoughts. "He surprised me. I expected him to go for you with everything he had, but not to attack you personally." She looks over at the fallen policeman. "He certainly hated you." Looking back down at me, she continues, "Which was a lucky thing for us. He'd never have lost control and gone after you himself otherwise. We're lucky, because that's what did him in."  
  
Hate me? Why would he hate me? I start to ask, but something more important dawns on me. There's a moment of silence, then I say, "Kelly, I don't remember anything after he knocked me over."  
  
She nods and looks at me, her eyes dark and compelling. "That's okay," she says in a soft voice, "the important thing is that we won, right?"  
  
I look over at Monica, who stirs slightly, her face wincing as she tries to move her hands. Relief pours through me. Kelly's right. No point in thinking about what I don't remember. The important thing is that everything is okay now. Or it will be once we get Monica to a hospital.  
  
I slump to the ground beside her, lying on my back to stare at the night sky. My heart still racing, I become aware of my body and the beating it's taken. I hurt. My knuckles are a mess, my eyes are swelling shut, I'm bleeding from several cuts, and I feel like someone's given my kidneys a real shit kicking. I ache all over.  
  
Foggily, I hear Kelly murmuring something, the sound slowly lulling me towards sleep. She moves around Monica and me quietly, and I feel her lightly touch my face. I feel myself drift, and, for a moment, a welcome sense of peace settles over me. In the far, far distance, I can hear a siren disturb the night. They're coming. Exhausted, I close my eyes in contentment as Kelly's chant picks up in tempo.  
  
/It's okay, Daddy, it's okay./  
  
Everything's going to be all right.  
  
Chapter 11  
  
Twelve hours later, Kelly and I have both been interviewed separately, and they've filled me in on what they figured happened. I'm having a hard time believing my ears when they tell me Kelly's version of events. Meeting her in the waiting room afterwards, I look at her, wanting to say something but knowing I'll sound like a damned fool if I do. She said there isn't much to tell, but that can't be true - I remember that we spoke before I lost consciousness, and she was up and doing something after I lay down. I can distinctly remember hearing her move around after I closed my eyes. And, having examined the scene photos, I know she did way more to the scene than she's letting on.  
  
I look at her from across the waiting room they've put us in and try to figure out what she's up to. She stares back at me calmly. I open my mouth, but stop myself from speaking. I can't call her a liar, and she knows it - I've no proof, just a certainty that she didn't just sit there and wait after she phoned the ambulance.  
  
I think back to the crime scene photos; they looked remarkably like the photos from the murders we've been investigating. Far more so than the scene I remember from last night. "That's not how I remember it," I'd explained to the police when they'd interviewed me. "He was standing in the middle of a circle of candles with her. I went to get her. He was performing some sort of ritual." Here I'd stopped, unwilling to speak about what the ritual was, caught precariously between telling everything I knew and telling what would be believed.  
  
Bringing my thoughts back to the present, I look over at Kelly again, understanding why she's left out some of the stuff she has. I don't understand, however, why she didn't leave things at the scene the way I remember them.  
  
An officer comes in and disturbs the silence. He assures us that he'll contact us if he needs more information and allows us to leave. Kelly and I walk out of the station together, stepping from the cool darkness of the building and into the bright, mid-day heat without speaking. As we walk down the worn stone steps to the sidewalk, I wonder when I should say something. We're both heading for our cars, so when our feet hit the sidewalk, we both turn left.  
  
As we near the parking lot, I place a hand on her arm. Unable to keep my questions to myself any longer, I bring her to a stop and ask, "Why the hell did you mess with things? I know you didn't just sit down and wait for the ambulance to come: I can remember hearing you moving around before I passed out."  
  
She hesitates, squints her eyes against the bright sun and makes a show of watching a newer model car leave through the parking lot exit, the barrier arm dropping with a bounce behind it. "I did what had to be done," she says quietly, watching as the car drives past us.  
  
While I'm wondering just what it was that had to be done, she starts walking again. I follow. We're parked side by side, and as I reach my vehicle, it hits me. Looking at her over the roof of my car, I say, "You did something of your own afterwards, didn't you? That's why Peter doesn't remember anything. You did something to him."  
  
She faces me, but her eyes are focussed on the distance. "I had to," she says. A heatbeat, and she meets my eyes. "I had the chance to take away his knowledge, John. I had to do it. What was going on there- it was evil. It was too dangerous not to..." Her voice fades as she contemplates things I don't want to imagine.  
  
I don't know where to go from there. Ain't no doubt there was seriously bad stuff going on there, stuff I have trouble admitting to in the light of day. But exactly what she did and how she did it, I don't know, and I don't think I want to know, because if I did, I likely wouldn't believe it.  
  
"You were bleeding."  
  
She nods, accepting the change of topic.  
  
"Should you be seeing a doctor?"  
  
She shakes her head. "Preparing to face something like that can be as dangerous as facing it. I'm okay now, though, thanks."  
  
I'm not sure I understand, but I nod when she says she's okay. Remembering the powdery stuff she blew in my direction and the potions and amulets she had with her to protect me and Monica, I ask, "You had to take something to protect yourself? Something dangerous?"  
  
She shrugs. "I did what I had to do. For now, at least, it's okay. We don't have to talk about it anymore."  
  
I sigh. The police seem satisfied: they have a suspect under arrest and an air-tight case against him. They aren't going to question their good fortune. I can see gaps in the story a mile wide - it's as plain as the nose on your face, for example, that the scene's been tampered with - but they appear content to think Peter went off the deep end and used the cover of occult practices to prey on unsuspecting women. Kelly's just a foolish woman who moved things when she shouldn't have, and they're busy rolling up their sleeves to tie Peter in with the other occult murders they've had accumulating on their books. They've already told me they can finish off the cases Monica and I were sent down to investigate on their own, now that they've caught the culprit.  
  
I look at Kelly and wonder how much she influenced the police's thinking. Can she do that? I remember how calm I was, how accepting of what had happened before the ambulance came. Had Kelly done that? I look at her uneasily, wondering if I should push for answers. I decide not to: it has, after all, turned out okay, and ain't no one gonna believe stories about stolen powers and such, anyways. Working for the X-Files has taught me a lot about outsiders and their attitudes. No point inviting more derision than we need to.  
  
Disturbing my thoughts, she asks, "Heading to the hospital now? It'd be good if you could be there when she wakes up." Her eyes, when they meet mine, are clear and without guile. The question startles me - almost as much as the intensity of her blue eyes does. Once again, she's reminding me to focus my thoughts on where they should be.  
  
"Yeah. You coming?" Even as I'm askin' it, the question surprises me. Examining my feelings though, I realise I really don't mind if she comes with me. She's many kinds of weird, and I can't say I'll ever like or totally understand her, but Kelly's a friend of Monica's: a real friend.  
  
She'd turned towards her car, but my words stop her. Turning back towards me, she smiles. "Thank you," she says, as though responding directly to my small change of heart, "but no, I'll wait. You two need to spend a few minutes together alone. Call me once you've spoken with her, though, okay? I'll come over then."  
  
"Sure," I answer. "Anything you want me to tell her?"  
  
She shakes her head. "Nothing in particular. Tell her everything's okay for now, and not to worry."  
  
I frown. "Worry?"  
  
She looks like she wants to bite her tongue. "It doesn't matter right now," she says in a dismissive tone. "Just be happy things are okay. Concentrate on Monica."  
  
My lips curve upwards. "You keep tellin' me that."  
  
"I do, don't I? It's good advice."  
  
She's lookin' me straight in the eye, and suddenly I feel as though she's hittin' on things I don't think she should be: personal stuff I'm not ready to deal with just yet. As I'm sure she expects me to, I back away. "I'll call."  
  
She nods. Putting her key in her car's door lock, she turns it and opens the door. She gets in, but before she closes the door, she looks at me and smiles. "I'll talk to you later. Give Monica my love."  
  
I watch as she reverses out of her space, gives a small wave, and then drives away. She looks so normal. I look around; so does everything else. Maybe that's how things are when extraordinary things happen to ordinary people - once it's over, things just go back easy to being what they always are.  
  
Makes it kinda hard to believe what happened, happened.  
  
Another four hours later, they finally let me in to see Monica. They operated on both her hands, repaired the damage and have declared her miraculous, predicting that she'll have no permanent damage to either hand. I'm standing beside her hospital bed, holding flowers and thinking she's the most beautiful sight a man could ever hope to see. An intravenous line has been put in one arm, and both hands are bandaged until they look like shapeless lumps. She opens her eyes, takes a moment to focus, and then smiles up at me. She looks pale against the white of the pillow, and tired, too, but the smile reassures me and I relax a bit.  
  
"Been here long?" she asks, her voice a little raspy.  
  
"Nah. Brought you some flowers."  
  
"So I see."  
  
I look around, feeling stupid.  
  
"The nurses usually have vases at the desk. I'm sure they'll lend you one."  
  
Of course they do. Of course they will. "I'll be right back."  
  
A few minutes later, I'm back with the flowers in a vase. Placing them carefully on her bedside table, I turn to look down at her.  
  
"You gave us a real scare."  
  
"I was a little worried myself, once I realised what was happening."  
  
"Anyone been in to talk to you about it?"  
  
"They tried, but the nurse tells me they didn't get much. I kept passing out on them. I can remember getting up to the part where we were in the clearing, but I don't know if I made too much sense. You and Kelly have spoken to them, right? They know they have their man, so they're probably not all that worried about my statement just now." She looks up at me and says, "Sit down. You look uncomfortable." Her eyes follow me as I obey, and she adds, "You look like a truck hit you: a big, mean, ugly truck."  
  
I grunt. "I feel like it. I'm a little long in the tooth for some of this stuff. Can't take the punches like I used to." She, on the other hand, though she's looking tired, is sounding awful chipper for someone who almost got herself killed last night.  
  
"Poor baby," she smiles. "What happened?"  
  
I place my hand on her arm, just above where the bandages begin. My hand looks tanned and weathered compared to the smooth paleness of her arm. "I don't remember much," I confess.  
  
"Good."  
  
She makes the word sound like a sigh of relief and I look at her in surprise. "What do you mean?"  
  
Looking away, she says, "Nothing." A sideways glance at me and she says, "It looks as though it was quite a fight you were in. There's no harm if you don't remember every punch."  
  
I frown. It's more than just a punch or two that I don't remember. Some part of me questions why I don't mind not remembering, but it quickly shuts up when Monica asks me to help her sit up more. Hell, it'll all come back to me eventually.  
  
As I get up to figure out where the mechanism is that works the bed, Monica asks: "Is Kelly all right?"  
  
I nod. "Yup. She didn't look too good there for a while, but she seems fine now." I want to ask her if she knows what the heck went on last night that I don't remember, but looking at her tired face, I figure it's a conversation that can wait for later. If anyone knows what Kelly is capable of, Monica does. She'll tell me what happened, but I won't push her now, not in her condition.  
  
Finding the control, I press what I figure must be the right button, wait 'til she's elevated enough, then rearrange her pillows for her. Once she looks settled, I ask, "Have they said when you're getting out?"  
  
"You don't know?" she asks.  
  
"Well, yeah, but I'm making conversation, here."  
  
"Oh, well, in that case, yes, as a matter of fact, they have."  
  
Knowing the answer, I still ask, "And when is that?"  
  
"In two days, if no infection sets in - and if I can guarantee that I have someone to look after me until my hands heal to their satisfaction." She smiles. "Apparently, someone has already volunteered."  
  
So she knows. I'd kinda wanted to pass it by her first, but...  
  
"You don't mind, do you?"  
  
"Of course not. I'm just thinking it might not be the most comfortable thing you've ever offered to do. I'm not sure I'm a very good patient..."  
  
"I can handle it if you can. Between Kelly and I, I figure we can manage." I pause, taking a second to realise that the name 'Kelly' doesn't leave such a bad taste in my mouth as it once did.  
  
Breaking into my thoughts, Monica asks, "What's Skinner got to say?"  
  
"Stay as long as I need to, within reason. He wants me to finish up the case here, write my report, ecetera, ecetera. Said he'd take a look to see if there was some other use they could put me to down here for a week or so until you're ready to travel back to D.C."  
  
"He can be nice when he wants to be."  
  
"I'll let you know about that after I find out what he puts me to doing."  
  
She smiles, but it fades fast, as though it takes more energy than she can give it.  
  
Feeling guilty I haven't been paying more attention to how she's feeling, I curse myself for sitting her up higher. It's tired her; maybe made her hands hurt. Quickly, I tell her, "I should be going. I'll put the bed back down."  
  
She lifts a bandaged hand. "Please don't." She yawns. "Don't go, I mean. You can put the bed down, though. I'm sorry. I shouldn't be like this."  
  
I fly to her defence. "Considering what you've been through, I don't know why you should be anything different. You lost a ton of blood last night, and you're lucky you have the use of your hands today. The sonofabitch hammered spikes through them, for Godsakes. The doctors are saying you're damned lucky there was no permanent damage." I sound like I'm lecturing her, so I add feebly, "You be as tired as you want to be. I'll stay 'til you want me to go."  
  
There's another silence between us. I'm so glad she's okay, so glad that nothing worse happened last night. She'll never know how scared I was.  
  
"He didn't want to, you know. It wasn't what he planned."  
  
Softly spoken, her words come out of nowhere and stand in the air between us. Surprised by them, I try to absorb their meaning, but cannot. I'm in no mood to allow Peter Worthington leeway or excuses. She thinks he didn't want to? He sure as hell acted like he wanted to.  
  
/Be nice, Daddy./  
  
There's silence between us while I try to come up with something to say that doesn't make me sound revengeful. Finally, I say, "I'm sorry, that doesn't make sense to me, Monica."  
  
"No, I suppose not," she says, her voice soft and contemplative.  
  
A worried look crosses her face. Seeing it, I ask, "Wanna tell me about it?"  
  
She shakes her head. "No. Not yet."  
  
"Later?"  
  
"If that's okay."  
  
She's tired. She's been through hell. Of course later's okay. "Sure. Whenever you're ready." I'm worried enough about her I don't care what it is she's not saying. It can wait.  
  
"Do you mind keeping me company until I fall asleep?"  
  
"No problem," I tell her, understanding her not wanting to be alone after what she's been through and glad in some strange way that it's me she wants there. Slowly, I ease the bed down so that she'll be comfortable while she sleeps. Hair has fallen across her face, and I gently move it back out of the way. It takes all I've got not to stroke her cheek with the back of my fingers. She looks tired and fragile, and I want to take her in my arms and protect her. From what, I can't say, but that's how I feel. Instead, I sit back down in my chair and move it a little closer to the bed. Placing my hand back on her arm, I say, "You sleep. I'm going to call Kelly later and tell her how you're doin'; she wants to see you. Everything's going to be fine. Get your rest."  
  
/'night 'night, Daddy./  
  
She closes her eyes. In a few minutes, her breathing tells me she's asleep. Not letting go of her, I put my head down on my arm. She's safe. I'm with her. Closing my eyes, I give way to my own exhaustion.  
  
Epilogue Four Weeks Later:  
  
"Whatd'ya mean, 'didn't commit them all'? How'd they figure that? He hasn't said a word in his own defence 'cept that he can't remember anything. Why would he let them accuse him of stuff he didn't do?" I'm trying to keep the annoyance I feel outta my voice, but I don't know if it's working.  
  
Monica lifts up the report she holds in her lightly bandaged hands and gestures towards me with it. "They've re-examined the evidence, looked at the time line, and he couldn't possibly have committed them all. There's proof he was in another part of the country when a couple of them happened." She frowns. "He still claims he doesn't remember doing any of the things he's been accused of, or know why he was doing what they claim he was doing."  
  
"Yeah, well, talk to Kelly about that," I mutter.  
  
My remark is met with dead silence. Slowly, I turn to face her. Her eyes hold mine, huge, dark, and compelling. "She did what had to be done, John."  
  
I don't bother responding to that. No point, is there? Peter had remained just as uncommunicative about his activities as he had been when they'd first taken him into custody. He'd regained most of his memory, but remained adamant that he couldn't remember the murders or why he would have committed them - though he did admit the evidence against him in some cases was irrefutable.  
  
Big of him, eh?  
  
It frustrates the hell outta me that Monica still seems to have a soft spot for the guy, as though he and what he did to her are somehow separate. She said it was evil there that night, and I guess that's true: what he was doing to her sure was. I can't absolve him of what he did - after all, he allowed that evil to work through him. If you listen to the mumbo jumbo stuff, it says he had to seek it out for it to have any sway with him. I figure if that's the case, if he actually asked to be part of what had control of him, then he deserves every bit of justice he gets for what he did -and I don't give a tinker's damn if he can remember it all or not, sick bastard. The evidence will show what the evidence will show. It won't be me or spirits or weird powers or whatever that will prove Peter guilty: it'll be good, hard, solid facts.  
  
The kind of facts I understand.  
  
Pausing in my recriminations, I stop to consider the memory lapse thing. It still nags at me a bit. I'm sure that Kelly and her activities had something to do with that inability to recall certain things. It's hard to say if she helped or hindered, but I know there's no evidence to prove anything. What was done was done. She's got her own agenda, whatever it is, and I can't figure it out. In the day time, I'm sure she can't do the things that late at night I suspect she can. At least, I think I am. After all, you don't just wipe a man's memory clean, and you certainly don't do it in such a selective way that he can remember everything but what you need him to remember. One thing's for sure: he's guilty as hell for a number of those murders, and I'll be damned if he shouldn't pay for them.  
  
"The one thing in his favour is that they can't figure out why he committed the murders."  
  
I grunt at her intrusion into my thoughts. "And no one I know is likely to tell them, either."  
  
Monica's voice is softly reasonable when she says, "They wouldn't believe the truth, and you know it; you still have times when you don't, and you were there." She glances away. "Still, I'm sure they'll ask me again if I can think of why he chose me."  
  
They had asked me that a few times, too: wondering if I knew how close Peter and Monica were, wondering if she might have made him angry enough to turn murderous. They even asked what my relationship was with her, hinting that maybe Peter thought we were too close to be just partners and became jealous. I did my best to set them straight.  
  
I shrug. "They can ask themselves why he chose any of them."  
  
"I don't think he chose any of them; it's just not like him."  
  
I look at her derisively. "What are you talking about? How can you say that after he nailed your hands to the ground? It sure looked to me like he'd chosen you for something to me. It didn't look like he planned on letting you go home alive, either. That wasn't like him either?"  
  
She waits a minute before answering. "I know what you're saying," she finally admits, "but what he did...there was something else there that night. He was totally taken over by it, totally in the thrawl of whatever had possession of him. Not all the murders felt the same, John. Not all were touched by the same evil. It was very confusing then, and I think I mentioned that. I still believe that some of the women committed murders of their own. I agree there were murders he committed to gain the powers he wanted - but there were others committed by someone else, some other serial killer we still haven't found, who was killing for different purposes we haven't yet figured out."  
  
"You think the murderer's still out there."  
  
"Well, a murderer is still out there, yes."  
  
"And into the same shit Peter was?"  
  
Monica shakes her head, shrugs. "No. Maybe. I don't know."  
  
I frown. "Same MO, maybe different reasons?"  
  
She nods her head thoughtfully. "Perhaps. The New Orleans office is responsible for it for now, though."  
  
I jump on her wording. "For now?"  
  
She looks at the folder lying on her desk. "I have a feeling we'll have something to do with this again before it's all over. There's more to those murders than just your regular madman." Looking up at me with shadowed eyes, she asks: "What if what we've seen is only part of a bigger picture?"  
  
My heart sinks. I don't wanna hear it. Leaning back in my chair, I regard her silently for a moment. What she's saying is that there's more mumbo jumbo heading my way. Sighing, I resist an urge to hit something. There's nothing for it but to go with the flow. When the shit hits the fan, at least I'll be there to recognise it for what it really is. "So we haven't seen the last of Kelly?"  
  
She looks over at me and smiles. "Not by a long shot. Something tells me this all centres around New Orleans."  
  
I groan. This is what Kelly meant when she said that everything was okay for now. Monica was out of danger, and so was anyone else that Peter might have needed - but it wasn't the end.  
  
I sit back in my chair and wonder when the 'now' will be over and when we'll be called in to help in the investigation of a serial killer who's decided to get back to his routine.  
  
"We should do something, tell them what to look out for."  
  
Monica makes a quick, negative movement with her head. "The police know what they're looking for, and wouldn't take our assistance too kindly, you know that. When things start getting a little weirder, they'll be more willing to consider it an X-File. We need to learn from this and prepare ourselves. We won't be able to help until they're prepared to accept the help we need to give them. Kelly is there keeping an eye out. She'll let us know what's happening."  
  
I don't like the sound of that at all. She's falling too deeply into the witchcraft/demon/magic/whatever stuff. Hopefully after a while back here where at least some vestige of sanity reigns, she'll be back to her normal self.  
  
Not that 'normal self' is all that normal.  
  
Unaware of my thoughts, Monica looks up at the clock. "Time to go."  
  
"You made it through the whole day with no pain killers," I observe, glad for the switch in topic.  
  
She smiles. "Yup. In a couple days, they're taking these off." She holds up her hands, indicating the light bandages that are wrapped over them, then begins her preparations to leave.  
  
I watch as she tidies away the files on her desk and wonder what it is that I've learned from these past few weeks. Because she needed the help, she stayed at my place for a while, it being easier for me to have her there than for me to put up at her place. She's moved back to her apartment now, though, and I miss having her around. Her living with me created this weird sense of intimacy that I miss. She's become an important part of my life in the few months since she agreed to join me in the basement.  
  
I shake my head and look away. The warning signs are all over the place, and I'm not so stupid I haven't noticed them. It's been a long time since I've felt this way, and it's a little scary. I wonder if it's what I think it is, and if I'm ready for it.  
  
I wonder if she is.  
  
She gathers up her jacket and turns to look at me expectantly. Thoughts of Peter and powers and occult madness are totally out of my mind now.  
  
I wonder if she'd like to go out and grab some dinner somewhere before going home.  
  
Life goes on.  
  
I feel the warmth of my son's smile.  
  
/'Bye, Daddy/.  
  
End 5/5   
New Orleans  
By: Mariel  



End file.
